Begin afresh, afresh, afresh

Slowly, as if creaking on papered wings, the year stretches into life. The first draft of the Book of Doom is done, the blanks are filled in for my course this year (one dissertation, two creative writing portfolios, two Shakespeare modules, one double Arthurian module, and some modernism and Irish revivalism), the plays are opening their mouths in a morning yawn as auditions draw to a close, everyone is back in Cardiff and the T house is...

...well, to be honest, the T-house is in a state of some disrepair. I think it will survive the year, but I wouldn’t want to bet money on it. We have mould downstairs, a shower that attacks us, doors that don’t shut, or don’t open, a cooker that wont ignite and a toilet out in our front garden.
Yes. Really.

We also have a small lake. Now, I’m not adverse to water-features, but in the ideal property these are outside. Or, if not, they’re heated. The pool in our kitchen is neither of these things. It just spreads out, with building determination, from behind the washing machine. The plumber came, and said we need a new washing machine. The washing machine man came and said we needed a plumber. And the plumber? He didn’t come. Flanders and Swan were lucky.

But being back in Cardiff has other allures. Like my very good friend Ais having joined me at university. Like the fact that another of my friends is staging the Merchant of Venice. Like hatching ridiculously elaborate plans for various enactments. And the start of my Sunday book.

Yes, a Sunday Book.

I stole the idea from the rather fantastic Maggie Stiefvater whose début Lament has just been released (It features homicidal faeries. You cannot go wrong). Anyway, I concluded that the Book of Doom just needs rewriting. But its not impossible, if I get into a routine and do a bit each day, I can play on Sunday. I can forget everything else, kickback, and have fun. It all started when afore-mentioned MoV director & I went to see the RSC’s version.

Sledgehog, [dreamily walking up to the gallery in the courtyard theatre]: The theatre is magic. Magic.
Director: ...I thought Shylock was far too reasonable. He sounded like a lecturer, not like someone desperately seeking a pound of flesh...
Sledgehog: its magic. It's Alive. It's in the plays...
Director: ...
Sledgehog [sounding very happy]: ...magic...
Director [looking at her threateningly]: You know, I'm sure I could extract a pound of flesh easily enough. All you need is ice...

They didn't believe me about the magic, so I woke up at 6am the next morning and wrote a synopsis. My Sunday book is going to be fun...


Tasting the Past


Through the mossy stumps of history
Time's pilgrims pass, searching for truth,
delving through dust for eternal springs, cracked
lips on dry husks,
sucking.


As sunlight spears the stumbling stones, we
pass as shadows in their midst, unreal,
building histories from
dulled dry bones,
waiting


for the inescapable clatter of rain,
crashing time over broken stones
like a river exploding over a dam,
a confusion of years,
cascading


into steely serenity, glossing sins
as the river cleanses the crumbling stones.
The storm beats a metronome of time;
a window, empty, shows only sky.