from BARDO

The stars are in our belly; the Milky Way our umbilicus.

Is it a consolation that the stuff of which we’re made

is star-stuff too?

– That wherever you go you can never fully disappear –

dispersal only: carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen.

Tree, rain, coal, glow-worm, horse, gnat, rock.

Roselle Angwin

Saturday, 29 January 2011

an imagined life: 1

Saturday evening. This is a work towards a work-in-progress – maybe – set in St Ives. It's in short sections, and maybe you'll guess the model for the protagonist's identity. I stress that it's fiction. Kind of. Mostly. More to follow, possibly at weekends.

She lifts the coffeepot off the ring, pours herself a black mugful. Kicks the studio door open. The first cigarette – inhaling – of the day’s the best. The first’s the best, she scribbles, swift neat cursive, in her journal. Smiles. This craving for the first of anything, need to experience it over and over. Though there are some firsts I shall surely give up this year. One or two.
            Nodding over the wall the dracaena’s already in flower, and it’s a week into January. What is it, she writes, bold black ink, to be alive at this time?

She lifts her head from the drawing board, sniffs the air through the open door as an animal might. The sky is closing in. Stepping into the garden: Godrevy eclipsed by cloud and bands of rain. Is that a sail on the horizon? A black sail – on, off, on, gone. She lights another cigarette. Imagination. She thinks again of the piece she’s working on, its fluid curves and scarps under her hands.
            ‘Ben!’ she calls. And again, impatient. The mist tickles her skin.
She stubs the cigarette, kicks it under a bush, steps back into the studio, leaves the door open. A gull, mournful; and another, more distant.

She lifts the coffeepot off the ring, pours herself a black mugful.

 © Roselle Angwin 2011

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