The Senses: I'll Show You Mine...

At the moment I am still enthralled, so I have no concentration.  But hush now, loyal (all 4 of you!) BlackberryJuniper Readers – I will be out of enthrallment material soon…and no money to get any more, so I shall be back. To bore you at a greater frequency than now.

In the meantime, I am filled with joy the last day or so, in a quiet way (no reason).  Which also doesn’t make for writing concentration.  Also, simply hardly any time.  A lot of family stuffs are occurring. 

So!  Since when I am full of joy I feel the need to pay particular and real attention to things, here, for your delectation, are 3 more writing exercises from the past, when I really did (sigh) have time to pay attention to things, and then also write about them. 

The world can be so VIVID.  So particular.  Have some senses!

Closed Eyes Glass – 2006

It’s cold to the touch.  I have to reach farther than I thought to get to it.  It’s a lot further along the table than it seemed before I closed my eyes.

It’s not as cold as I thought it would be, but I’m overwhelmed by its smoothness.  And then its bumpiness.

From the top rim – which is where I catch hold of it first – its got a nick in the top of it, where some glass must have chipped off, but I don’t remember ever seeing this or noticing it.  I am only feeling it now.  I run my finger round its edge, and it amazingly makes that sound you hear about: the slight singing, humming; the thing you see people do on TV.  I grasp it with both hands, having got a feel for its small dimensions, from touching its top.  It’s full of coke, so I know that’s why it feels so cold.  It’s dewy round the sides, about a third of the way from the top.  Then I hit the bumpiness.

Eyes closed, its impossible to tell what the pattern on the glass is.  I know what it is, as I’ve seen the glass before; but blind – it could be anything.  It feels like a flaw in the glasses making; a really interesting flaw.  I imagine the glass being blown, like you see on school trips, and that the bearded man who blew this glass (don’t ask me why he’s bearded in my imagination), paused to take a breath and then just blew the tiniest bit too hard, and this created the weird lumpiness under my fingers here on the glass.  It feels like one round raised bump, domelike; then smaller echoes in perfect harmony round its centre.  And a long thin wiggled line underneath, with one small less raised lump bumping out of the side.

I feel the wetness on my fingers, where the coldness of the coke, straight from the fridge, has made the glass show condensation (its all science, why the glass is wet on the outside) – but to me, all it is, is a delicious smooth sensation of cold, and a slight hint of whispery sound.  My hands hit the table, I have found the base of the glass.

I pick it up and raise it to my lips.  Maybe because I’ve been concentrating on it, it feels even colder on my lips; the coke tastes sweeter.  I open my eyes, and look at the glass.  It does have a large chip out of the rim – almost dangerous; I’m going to have to throw this one away.  Surprised I didn’t cut my finger on it as I explored its smooth sudden deviation from that perfect circular rim pattern.  I swallow, and only then realise how thirsty I made myself, exploring the glass.  I created an anticipation I never usually feel.

Outside, Closed eyes, vision the last sense to be portrayed – 2007

I step outside of my parents’ bungalow, and sit on the front step.  My son has helpfully blindfolded me with one of my mother’s chiffon scarves she wears to church.  It smells, very lightly, of her soap and deodorant – simple and plain.

The step is chill under my jeans; it’s early – maybe 6.30 a.m.  There is immediately a mass of sound around me, I’m shocked by it.

There’s an airshow next week, and planes are practising already.  I don’t know anything about planes; but the noise is loud, and they sound old.  They sound scary – without being able to see, all I can hear is what sounds like distressingly close swooping.  It sounds like the pilots are having fun.  I’m worried by it, distracted by it.

Then it fades, and I’m left with birdsong, from the row of trees off to the left.  I feel a sudden chill over my arms, and hear wind shushing through the trees.  They sound a lot leafier and thicker bodied than they look usually.  It’s an absorbing sound. 

I reach down to my right side and find the cigarette and light I placed there.  I feel carefully around the cigarette, make sure I’m putting the soft end in my mouth.  Eyes blind like this, I am a lot more conscious of the smell of the tobacco in the cigarette than I am usually.  The click of the lighter is hugely loud in the silence that has temporarily fallen.  I listen to myself breathe it in, feel surrounded by the smell of ashtray momentarily.  I remember why I want to give up (again), before the smoke hits me inside, and then I remember why I haven’t yet.

Simultaneously, what sounds unmistakeably like a milk van rounds the corner at the end of the drive, and I drop the lighter, which clatters down the steps with the noise of a small paperweight of heavy glass.  The sound is out of proportion to the size of the lighter. The milk van stops a few doors away and idles.  It sounds like a pretend van, a remote control van; just on a larger scale.  I’ve thought this ever since I can remember – same with ice cream vans.  It’s like they aren’t real vans at all.

Footsteps crunch across gravel and then shimmer over grass, with the clink of bottles, as I see in my minds eye the driver delivering the milk. He crunches back to the van, I can hear his jacket making that shushy sound artificial fibres make when they rub together.  It sounds like an old anorak, very old and well worn.

I’m conscious of the cold getting to me now, and I put out the cigarette on the stone of the drive floor, listen to my boot grind it dead.  Birds sing again, softly this time, different ones; a breeze lifts the edges of my hair. It feels very sensuous.

I take the blindfold off, more conscious of the acrid taste of old smoke in my mouth, and echoes of toothpaste mintyness quickly being smothered, than I am of anything I’m seeing.

Funnily enough, when I take the blindfold off, there’s no sign of the van – he must have been around the corner in the next drive, and it was just so still that I heard him really clearly.  It’s darker than I thought it would be, and seeing it look so dark, I’m aware of feeling even colder suddenly.  The trees look barer than they sounded.

Project 3: Eating and Cooking, waiting for Stanley to come home, 2008

I was smiling as I ground the pinenuts with my pestle and mortar.  They blended with the olive oil and basil already there, and sent up a fragrance so fresh and persistently real, it made me wonder why I would ever buy any bottled pesto – why did I not always make my own?

I licked my thumb, where a basil leaf had stuck to it, glued on with the pinenut and oil paste.  The radio was still giving me Vivaldi, one of the more joyful concertos, and I felt myself quicken in my movements, keeping to the tempo.  Beyond that I heard the heavy ticking of the clock, tickling at the edges of my senses and reminding me of my need to be ready before Stanley arrived.  It would not be good to be unready when he arrived; I was determined to make the evening perfect for him, he deserved it for being him this week.

Going over to the oven I opened it, light from the spot in the corner glinting across its none too clean surface, heat washing over me thickly, as I inhaled the strong scent of lemon and cinnamon.  The tart was nearly done.

The cheating part came next.  I moved to the fridge, nearly tripping over my long skirt, heavy and velvet, green and decadent.  More smiling: dressing up was almost as good as the cooking.  I lifted it, feeling the fabric bunch in my fingers: rich and tactile, warm and weighty. Deeply satisfied already, I lifted the freshly made pasta from the fridge, so much heavier than the dried kind, and tipped it whole into the bubbling saucepan, hobbed and ready.  Immediately, crackles and hisses rose up, and I stirred the whole thing with a large wooden spoon, gripping it carefully over the pull of the swirling water.  It lifted a sweat on my forehead, standing in the steam, and I went through to the bedroom to get a scrunchie to get my hair out of the way.  Quarter of an hour to go, and all was nearly ready.  Good, good, good.

The bread was already laid out, butter warming in the edges in its sparkly glass dish.  I couldn’t resist cutting myself a tiny slice, and hazelnut and rosemary reached my nose before it broke over my tongue.  I watched the flame licking the air in the centre of the table; the wax dripping in a quick spurt the way it did with non-beeswax candles, the shaft thickly and darkly forest green.  I steadied it in its silver holder, seeing it slightly at an angle.

The doorbell rang.  Perfect – he was home.  I pulled the scrunchie out of my hair, shook it about, picked stray hairs from the bodice of the dress, and went to the door.  As I opened it, I could see him already smiling at the smells, before he even admired the dress (or was it just my bust?!).  I grinned at him back, and we held it for a moment, before I went to his arms, and disappeared  into the hug, feeling the thick blackness of his overcoat, spotted with rain that cooled my kitchen hot cheeks.  He smelled of cold outside night.