White Noise



Weeks go by with a faintly static silence.

The ordinary crackles on and I am pushing a shopping trolley,
being a parent taxi,
supervising the Sprogs in the pool,
fixing them dinner,
and trying not to pass out on a Pilates mat
while a toned Thai instructor turns herself inside out with gentle ease.


There are Pooh bear puzzles on the floor,
trash that needs emptying
and a dog that needs walks, feeding and scolding.
The sprogs' hair is tacky, their hands and faces sticky.
Crayola Window markers adorn the french doors with underwater themes.
The sewing room is scattered with pins and tiny threads.
There is Parmesan cheese on the floor of the oven.


You know. Normal stuff.

Little mosaics of ordinary that consume and dictate the hours
and how my head and hands fill them.

And somewhere, I think bloggy thoughts that fall and rise like the stock market,
but are hushed under a blanket of interference.


I travel in the car to get the kids from school,
sometimes pressing the radio tuning buttons in quick succession
in the hopes of stumbling across a sound I might recognise.
But instead, Indonesian tumbles into Malay, Mandarin into Hindi.
The sitar bounces off the gong which rolls into Japanese technopop.

It is vibrant and completely foreign to me.


I lean towards a nest of predictability.

Missing pruning my daphne and white roses.
Cooking crockpot lamb while its cold outside or
picking a bunch of my own fresh mint
from a pot under the dripping garden tap.
I miss the smell of sunshine on my washing.


And then I whack the back of a pomegranate
with all the frustrations I carry of just being me.

The ruby seeds fly out and I stand paralyzed,
amazed and wide eyed at their audacious light
against the milky feta on my salad.

I pick up the girls from ballet,
and am mute when I see poetry in their bone structure
as they walk towards me,
exhausted.

When reaching for ingredients in the pantry,
I am utterly sidetracked by the pattern on the poppadom packet.



It is a strange and peculiar turning,
but I am trying to tune in
and tell the yearning for predictability
that it is just a layer of me,
not the whole.

I can hear uncertainty in the way my old habits
try to order the new, young ones into line.
The way to do things is not going unchallenged.
My dislikes are being dangled out for a re-think.

Are you sure, my questioning creative asks,
that you don't like blue and orange together?

Are You Sure?

For some reason this becomes crucial to answer.
I flash back uncomfortably to not having a security blanket
while away from home and having to borrow
a flannel baby wrap to sleep with when I was 9.
It was pilled and coarse and smelled of carbolic soap.
It was also blue and orange paisley.
A wave of homesickness bleakly rushed into the colours and ruined them.
After that those colours together made me feel ill.


I am now in my mid thirties and I am suffering a colour crush.
I dawdle helplessly,
dizzy with the love of a coral wall or a teal leather book,
the ruffles of a jungle leaf and
I poke at the chickpeas in my curry
peering at them changing from mustard to aubergine.

My grown up matronly voice is bewildered and falters.

The creative voice speaks clearer and is more demanding.

Says, remember those glass bangles in teal and gold
when you were 9, a gift from India?
They all broke didn't they?
But their chime and hue made a part of who you are.

Those glass turquoise tiles from Paradise Island
that you pressed into the mud to make tiny villages?
Childhood play made adult thoughts.

Remember reading the works of Amy Carmichael
all those years ago?
How you wished for a sari?

Those colours were there all along,
just hidden under the layers
of who you chose to be.

Ah, so perhaps this radio station is not so unfamiliar after all.


It was just tuned out
under a blanket of muffling white,
to ensure the dyes of the past
did not stain the safety of the future.


Penny  – (September 1, 2011 at 9:44 AM)  

gorgeous, I love the line about blog ideas rising and falling like the stock market and the blanket of interference.
Do you know I noticed on pinterest that your colours were changing so was intrigued when I read this....

Simoney  – (September 1, 2011 at 9:30 PM)  

WOW.
So poetic, so profound, so beautiful.
As always.
Fascinated by your newfound love of new colour.
Want to see those colours captured from your brave new world.
xx

Gail  – (September 4, 2011 at 12:24 AM)  

I'm always struck by colour when I see it on your blog - usually because I come anticipating crisp and calming whites.... a new season perhaps, my friend?

You are a master (ress) of words. Love you.x

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