tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-167573922024-03-19T09:20:35.531+00:00 JACKIE WILLS
poems and proseJackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.comBlogger494125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-49598289562876969112024-03-18T10:24:00.005+00:002024-03-18T10:36:03.419+00:00A tribute to Arc Publications<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5klvBS33qQEj0NUVf2pskQdQogRwT_UlWsaj167tyW6imf-tzl-u9pY1yBPoD_E5V3ZRXkUNHl61EYj2rLYhpZo2zYB7glMJnVdvP3smne-i-ldB4yxn4aI-NIFN6TCAMEW-En35Run8bJeMZT1aRhsyCRtKhXZAvyKVenwo3eR5jZ1KdLjxW/s5152/esrafal.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5klvBS33qQEj0NUVf2pskQdQogRwT_UlWsaj167tyW6imf-tzl-u9pY1yBPoD_E5V3ZRXkUNHl61EYj2rLYhpZo2zYB7glMJnVdvP3smne-i-ldB4yxn4aI-NIFN6TCAMEW-En35Run8bJeMZT1aRhsyCRtKhXZAvyKVenwo3eR5jZ1KdLjxW/s320/esrafal.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The year my last collection came out, I was house-sitting on an enormous old estate in Spain surrounded by asphodels and olive trees. It was a 45 minute drive to the main road. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I looked after sheep and weeded a courtyard of lemon trees and roses. It was a season out of time, my first and possibly last time house-sitting. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Asphodels were everywhere, a lamb was born, wild goats fought in front of the house. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">A few months later I launched <i>A Friable Earth</i>. Lucky to have a publisher, lucky to have had a chance to spend a month in the kind of place only millionaires see. But we were all on the brink. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Looking back to that year, 2019, it feels as if I was awarded a pause before the book was out, time to gather a sense of self before the upheaval of Covid. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYaS7FMJiRAOeg1h7Z3fJgsGL5m2boedKcA59YGB6yO552xDHMYLuQ-rF4iNjlQ-7eM19X1PxRcvAVY6fLqu2M0kuN74qK8nQ6Uwh2tJyGiGeXSCxp23WspB7ZV-cr9BdWI-tpUv2lUWn0nzVangr2k-kmK80pnKG1oCphuhvddmQdmS97KYJ4/s160/ward.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="152" data-original-width="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYaS7FMJiRAOeg1h7Z3fJgsGL5m2boedKcA59YGB6yO552xDHMYLuQ-rF4iNjlQ-7eM19X1PxRcvAVY6fLqu2M0kuN74qK8nQ6Uwh2tJyGiGeXSCxp23WspB7ZV-cr9BdWI-tpUv2lUWn0nzVangr2k-kmK80pnKG1oCphuhvddmQdmS97KYJ4/s16000/ward.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span>Tony Ward</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Five years on, almost to the day, with a new collection of poems on my desktop, I am now looking for a new publisher. <a href="https://www.arcpublications.co.uk/index" target="_blank">Arc</a>, who've published all but one of my collections since 1995, is scaling back. <a href="https://www.arcpublications.co.uk/arc_board" target="_blank">Tony Ward, publisher, and his business partner Angela Jarman</a>, have worked for decades giving poets from all over the world the opportunity to be read in English. <br />When Tony began Arc, he printed the books himself. In the early days he published books by Ivor Cutler, Adrian Henri, Rose Auslander. Later, the French poet Valerie Rouzeau, and among recent releases are poems by Karl Marx, Polish poet Aneta Kaminska and Nobel prize winner Nellie Sachs. Arc's new focus is on chapbooks. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharbkfaRu-2mOo5LHeJIhfO_emsOMsXno_zLf8t2KDDMPq2l_JtEP80dTQ_tX6sBfb-nY68wTPFj2N_lHtIHTM_8yXjp281AuObQ9Ebb0fVC0_PLjW1-sQFRt-W-L1pjkOtICP3qokJQ68UM_3W_R-lneoVxeoscDa2nyyv5masGjNRz4j6eFv/s1024/fontdesgabel9.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharbkfaRu-2mOo5LHeJIhfO_emsOMsXno_zLf8t2KDDMPq2l_JtEP80dTQ_tX6sBfb-nY68wTPFj2N_lHtIHTM_8yXjp281AuObQ9Ebb0fVC0_PLjW1-sQFRt-W-L1pjkOtICP3qokJQ68UM_3W_R-lneoVxeoscDa2nyyv5masGjNRz4j6eFv/s320/fontdesgabel9.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>On that estate, clearing water channels that were part of a great irrigation scheme introduced by African settlers a thousand years earlier, I went days without speaking to anyone. Then visitors, then solitude. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Poetry is a tenuous activity. I had no idea, really, how lucky I was to have a publisher, let alone one with a international perspective. It's a word that courts debate, followers, imitation. It's a word a lot of people want to be associated with and f</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">rom time to time, someone suggests there's too much poetry being published. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgc38ptXmsEa_jafUBaS29dBsGmQdr5E4f2SdTrbmoyQEPBMtsMheGE_KtyGRJ29hmOJkzlJ7oypuDlAOdnZil4Zo67cIiPHdVrUj-zNLcek50eRrz-FIR0jo1WHSkbwp8Lj0tOIFWZ-WC4f-Xcmd7rVLPgMVOpXdzdZx-ybWCgFMf81z8Ui5w/s184/jarman.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="184" data-original-width="160" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgc38ptXmsEa_jafUBaS29dBsGmQdr5E4f2SdTrbmoyQEPBMtsMheGE_KtyGRJ29hmOJkzlJ7oypuDlAOdnZil4Zo67cIiPHdVrUj-zNLcek50eRrz-FIR0jo1WHSkbwp8Lj0tOIFWZ-WC4f-Xcmd7rVLPgMVOpXdzdZx-ybWCgFMf81z8Ui5w/s1600/jarman.jpg" width="160" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span>Angela Jarman</span></td></tr></tbody></table>But I like what the poet Stephanie Norgate wrote in 2009, "Poetry is one of the most diverse art forms there is." She quoted another poet from the deep south west, Charles Causley, who said, "there can never be too many artists."</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Thankfully <a href="https://www.nationalpoetrylibrary.org.uk/write-publish/publishers" target="_blank">there are still poetry publishers</a>, like Arc, who are committed to an art form that refuses to be hemmed in and individuals like Tony Ward and Angela Jarman who've made it the work of a lifetime to keep that diversity at the heart of what they do. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuS81gVS_WwluIb1g8tieQJPfacNnfEm9d99CmH0uTL6nl03G9TwHnHufo8kV3oCblge79PfLIplyzr6_Iv6AeMUkoF3TrFdPPxlya-58Z8RX1E6JblNUa51W5wq8TcWJNSoB2c8_Yu1slE47dZE5nBIKRbidZZOEA7qBcRf3j-wskoLwBUgen/s3421/bunting.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1790" data-original-width="3421" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuS81gVS_WwluIb1g8tieQJPfacNnfEm9d99CmH0uTL6nl03G9TwHnHufo8kV3oCblge79PfLIplyzr6_Iv6AeMUkoF3TrFdPPxlya-58Z8RX1E6JblNUa51W5wq8TcWJNSoB2c8_Yu1slE47dZE5nBIKRbidZZOEA7qBcRf3j-wskoLwBUgen/w400-h209/bunting.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div></div><p></p>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-62657785309128721352024-02-27T08:19:00.004+00:002024-02-27T08:30:41.050+00:00Sewing February to March<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh89jHkl8W1ThjlUfoNJGqiLsNPPwgjugPDWb3U8pUB-QYVveR7m2sLAktLxkc7WRQHDFpCVBcFoB1niGFNMrLgX_PUryz_hGJjzmKuXFuhvF-nCK51YaiI-W5tkp-XOf96AAOtxuisYeMXpjveIcKEyRyEzK73LcXD3yFmpR0-6eEJQHZuE86/s2992/ditto%20japanese%20fabric.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2992" data-original-width="2992" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh89jHkl8W1ThjlUfoNJGqiLsNPPwgjugPDWb3U8pUB-QYVveR7m2sLAktLxkc7WRQHDFpCVBcFoB1niGFNMrLgX_PUryz_hGJjzmKuXFuhvF-nCK51YaiI-W5tkp-XOf96AAOtxuisYeMXpjveIcKEyRyEzK73LcXD3yFmpR0-6eEJQHZuE86/s320/ditto%20japanese%20fabric.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I was in <a href="https://www.dittofabrics.co.uk/" target="_blank">Brighton's best fabric shop, Ditto</a> yesterday buying lining for Jan-Willem's dressing gown. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I came back from the Netherlands earlier this month with four metres of red felted wool which he bought at the fabric market in Utrecht. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The market's a dream. Every time I visit Giya, Saturday morning's spoken for. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The dressing gown needed lining so I promised to find some fine cotton in Brighton. I headed for Ditto and there, Jill, the owner, pulled out an Italian designer lawn with a horizontal red stripe matching the wool perfectly. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">This will be one of the most expensive items I've made, after Giya's wedding dress because that lawn was not cheap but </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">it's a marriage of equals. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsCNAS0koNVxYizwAq7erqtU47vSwCTIcRR0yH_dVGsyotcwO0fRSkA54bHipRy7MIcVfcT_MBaOZIBkoywa8yeBh5ePcTzr-wxLIffjyAzd3ZWW7zesywRnE3iRY8yfKwshS7Nd2tyHLvX1ugHH9Imn4sGphoosViogdFyr2b1qEILasPFYUX/s1920/JW%20fabric%20dressing%20gown.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1920" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsCNAS0koNVxYizwAq7erqtU47vSwCTIcRR0yH_dVGsyotcwO0fRSkA54bHipRy7MIcVfcT_MBaOZIBkoywa8yeBh5ePcTzr-wxLIffjyAzd3ZWW7zesywRnE3iRY8yfKwshS7Nd2tyHLvX1ugHH9Imn4sGphoosViogdFyr2b1qEILasPFYUX/w200-h200/JW%20fabric%20dressing%20gown.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">I often take knotty problems to Jill, having discovered she worked for Jean Muir. I've bought the best linen ever from her. She sources ends of lines from designers and there's always something in the shop to desire.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">So it was with the black and white fabric - it is one of several Japanese cotton and linen blends in Ditto at the moment. I had the last 1.9 metres of it. I knew I had to be impulsive. It will be a skirt, I think since it falls so beautifully. February into March, then, is sewing time. Which will take me into sowing time. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-au3NueeTbjSWH3qS7Zu3qvX4_pckS1fa36z1EGEq3IloYjVt1x-ju3YrvH_lKFBhr44dodPJuuV3-tLDmUunxRT72RWboiQiJ1SlEF3c_wcjTI64zxfOZCBD5JZ4ozGXntp_EZGCSnYPXvtKCu84exTVTGVSf0muYn0wcOROSJTaV4T9MKAy/s774/Lapjesmarkt_Breedstraat_Utrecht.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="774" data-original-width="629" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-au3NueeTbjSWH3qS7Zu3qvX4_pckS1fa36z1EGEq3IloYjVt1x-ju3YrvH_lKFBhr44dodPJuuV3-tLDmUunxRT72RWboiQiJ1SlEF3c_wcjTI64zxfOZCBD5JZ4ozGXntp_EZGCSnYPXvtKCu84exTVTGVSf0muYn0wcOROSJTaV4T9MKAy/s320/Lapjesmarkt_Breedstraat_Utrecht.jpeg" width="260" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Saturday fabric Market, Utrecht</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p></p>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-83573346253990212802024-02-10T10:24:00.001+00:002024-02-10T10:35:49.791+00:00Biba, a villain and Ian McKellan as Hamlet<p><br /></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr8YKmq8T3G_THqbtC_GllhmrPjLpSZZ6-nZSZys2LJ0fHMkT1CsYYNf16S1_AdJHPe1oJ2xO9ev3sLjNpNxKmxQXsHRpDDsNAW9Pj8UWxkeTsVToFzfN0uR3ZmFjTYUzzHa7dXFK7W11C_ysBp332CBcFElWZQl52KXZAxG8KN5PFOtCLEutw/s2500/2012FP3559.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2500" data-original-width="1875" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr8YKmq8T3G_THqbtC_GllhmrPjLpSZZ6-nZSZys2LJ0fHMkT1CsYYNf16S1_AdJHPe1oJ2xO9ev3sLjNpNxKmxQXsHRpDDsNAW9Pj8UWxkeTsVToFzfN0uR3ZmFjTYUzzHa7dXFK7W11C_ysBp332CBcFElWZQl52KXZAxG8KN5PFOtCLEutw/s320/2012FP3559.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">Biba dress at V&A</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I'm sitting in the gods of Windsor Royal theatre with Mum and a couple of my friends, and I'm wearing a pale brown Biba dress with loops from tight fitted sleeves around my middle fingers. It's my 16th birthday treat and a young Ian McKellan is playing Hamlet. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Roll on a lifetime and I'm walking along Western Road after pilates, talking to a new friend about <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2023/dec/13/ian-mckellen-reprises-hamlet-for-new-film-version" target="_blank">McKellan's return to Hamlet, on film</a>. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The memory of that teenage theatre trip is so powerful and </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">visceral, that McKellan's name always evokes <a href="https://collections.vam.ac.uk/context/organisation/A2908/biba" target="_blank">that Biba dress</a>, how great it made me feel, the sense of life in the wings, the language of Shakespeare. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Life's been stressful recently. Enormously so. Added to the demands of caring is a totally unexpected bout of bullying - a revival of an insidious campaign from years ago that I thought was resolved. I let my guard down, I guess, although the bully will always attempt to make their victim blame themselves. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I'm very lucky to have fantastic friends and what this desperately difficult period of time is teaching me is the need to talk about it, which I didn't do before, to identify it for what it is, which I didn't do either (I was very naive). I am remembering the power of deep breathing, a sense of humour, walking and writing, frankincense for meditation and most of all, I am looking out for my health. Who needs a bully in their 69th year on the planet? </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But although we imagine bullying to be most prevalent at work and school <a href="https://www.who.int/news-room/fact-sheets/detail/abuse-of-older-people" target="_blank">the World Health Organisation's statistics on abuse of older people</a> in the community show by far the largest category of abuse is psychological. Worldwide, one in six older adults are subject to abuse but this is often hidden. We rarely talk about what abuse of older people means or challenge the ways it can manifest itself - in a casual abuse of power, for example, in an assumption of superiority. Many older people live alone, are not wealthy, are easily stigmatised and targeted. The abuser may well portray themselves as a pillar of the community, a doer of good works. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">And so I'm reminded again of McKellan, that <a href="https://theatreroyalwindsor.co.uk/about-us/" target="_blank">theatre trip to Windsor</a>, the Biba dress. We were studying Hamlet at school, of course, and of the many memorable lines I often go back to is this: </span></div><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">That one may smile and smile and be a villain.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">(Hamlet, Act 1 Scene 5)</span></div><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><p></p>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-35835422282516614692024-02-07T11:00:00.007+00:002024-02-07T17:47:21.848+00:00Old herbals and their cures<div style="text-align: left;">Waterbirds are on my mind after a week in the Netherlands and my journey home, wondering at enormous gatherings of Canada geese in low-lying fields from Rotterdam. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEWUt9QgS-OPqQr1ChLF6sZwWCqEt5tF9GgpLzkQ6avir-M42kMtwWiuwWsFx8Xarpzia87WWddlke7We3yB6xAmn0n76HbbakYgGFuwdDA9x2HUkx2s_efk2U3gehrx476fois_uqIDiteRyHHX_27ah6DNKV6R_D8iXR4CFfD3uqW0y66J1u/s1365/culpeper's%20The%20English%20Physician%201785%20Wellcome%20Collection%20.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="760" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEWUt9QgS-OPqQr1ChLF6sZwWCqEt5tF9GgpLzkQ6avir-M42kMtwWiuwWsFx8Xarpzia87WWddlke7We3yB6xAmn0n76HbbakYgGFuwdDA9x2HUkx2s_efk2U3gehrx476fois_uqIDiteRyHHX_27ah6DNKV6R_D8iXR4CFfD3uqW0y66J1u/w111-h200/culpeper's%20The%20English%20Physician%201785%20Wellcome%20Collection%20.jpg" width="111" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Culpeper</td></tr></tbody></table>They have me thinking about old herbals. It's nearly a lifetime since I bought my first which was Culpeper and I love every one I come across. I joke I'm a witch, or it's in my genes or that I loved chemistry at school. </div><div style="text-align: left;">I am constantly captivated by the concept of cures in the bark, leaves, roots, insects, animals and flowers around me. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Fy-4h10GSiuzl89u2RnU4iGltmmequEgHqN81HLgCO1fcLnOyItRfS1RmODXcLfziNchz_klMb7o2ccEF38qPqvUsS_uefiXs-P5z0HYamrJJ9hjEwQ5l-iMwYxin_6w2Ljw4xVTD01kLh_DL6E-9YjD91XocojxZtPqJvcEfl26lxamsZKD/s3146/Ducks%20from%20the%20Ming%20Herbal,%20Wellcome%20Collection.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3146" data-original-width="2098" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Fy-4h10GSiuzl89u2RnU4iGltmmequEgHqN81HLgCO1fcLnOyItRfS1RmODXcLfziNchz_klMb7o2ccEF38qPqvUsS_uefiXs-P5z0HYamrJJ9hjEwQ5l-iMwYxin_6w2Ljw4xVTD01kLh_DL6E-9YjD91XocojxZtPqJvcEfl26lxamsZKD/s320/Ducks%20from%20the%20Ming%20Herbal,%20Wellcome%20Collection.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ming Herbal, Wellcome Collection</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Some of the cures may seem unbelievable, but centuries on, I'll guarantee research is going on somewhere into an obscure recipe once created by a woman or man who set a broken bone, relieved a persistent cough or a rash. They too experimented. <br />These precious sources are increasingly digitised. One of the sources I go to is the Wellcome Collection. And so I search herbal cures, find Dr Henry Oakley writing about the castor oil plant and how the outer coat of the seed is the source of ricin, one of the most deadly poisons. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5uWNyAjRAymhY5Oe7WU52GIdfKOWwVawg3k80pclkJO56sxsncovIc-4MkGSLUGWjGxj4ZRj6hY_bP9aQkbd236hC-AhhXyGnP7mOEv_FsFxEED5m8tHb3ji6kiI6YAxcu64JmJJOrN2QnA0PTBxsOH9vYZ5ABR-EFuSQ5lOcvWxLBgOzS3b/s2940/Ming%20Herbal%20pigeons%20Wellcome%20Collection.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2940" data-original-width="1827" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5uWNyAjRAymhY5Oe7WU52GIdfKOWwVawg3k80pclkJO56sxsncovIc-4MkGSLUGWjGxj4ZRj6hY_bP9aQkbd236hC-AhhXyGnP7mOEv_FsFxEED5m8tHb3ji6kiI6YAxcu64JmJJOrN2QnA0PTBxsOH9vYZ5ABR-EFuSQ5lOcvWxLBgOzS3b/w124-h200/Ming%20Herbal%20pigeons%20Wellcome%20Collection.jpeg" width="124" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ming Herbal<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table>And while I marvel at the language and combinations of these cures, because there's something alchemical about them, I'm pulled in a different direction by the illustrations. Drawings and paintings found in old herbals play on me, make me feel the connection that artist had with a plant or a bird, a connection that comes from looking. </div><div style="text-align: left;">As I browse, I'm there, for a moment, in a pre-industrial landscape of plants, insects, birds, non-human species. When humans grubbed up fields in battle, bluebottles and beetles moved in. Our houses collapsed and went back to the earth. Some of our paths remained but they weren’t murderous. <br />In 1644, two Chinese artists Zhou Hu and Zhou Xi painted birds around them in a collection known as Bencao tupu (illustrated herbal). The herbal was never completed but I have kept some of its birds in my laptop as if their very presence is a charm. Zhou Rongqi wrote the text, explaining the flesh of the xichi duck, for example, was used to treat Qi deficiency. The pigeon was known as a flying servant. <br />I wonder if the knowledge of herbs, like the knowledge of growing food, sewing and mending, is a kind of insurance policy for the days so many of us dread. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjEMHrtO6LK51WdsGOMwzt5vGfUZ2yEAM1RvoVg9BTnaURt_onnxka_wzi9EQY__jXg5oyfpcZ0Rs1JI8okKKc1BmDGsEceT7whnG8xBish1uz0nD1B6Nmb0NRPdFnF5PQemOtoUb4J_kHgpeL_v1oRTCHnMuoXP29Byyl6QSivxBq_wJT76l5/s1339/Tibetan%20herbal,%20Wellcome%20Collection.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="809" data-original-width="1339" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjEMHrtO6LK51WdsGOMwzt5vGfUZ2yEAM1RvoVg9BTnaURt_onnxka_wzi9EQY__jXg5oyfpcZ0Rs1JI8okKKc1BmDGsEceT7whnG8xBish1uz0nD1B6Nmb0NRPdFnF5PQemOtoUb4J_kHgpeL_v1oRTCHnMuoXP29Byyl6QSivxBq_wJT76l5/s320/Tibetan%20herbal,%20Wellcome%20Collection.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Tibetan herbal, Wellcome Collection</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-22488862314482008212024-01-12T10:54:00.015+00:002024-01-12T11:36:18.887+00:00Come to buckle and bare thong<p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUTntcTg84RFj8ZBaxseU0lGgHCnZqqyLXq7irau_PjO4pEf4q417ehOSS13CIwhGR9Wbe3WuyDmo9qrAbDU63Zix7zL0lQerSRwGntxzlFt2iLQJxzLA6T2P9bE-mcma4TulZtpOSBW1dcFQdnSMYuPu-6FP2OTWQUW1nsWAdl4IcuSqQl_b/s1412/20231211_081928.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="906" data-original-width="1412" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUTntcTg84RFj8ZBaxseU0lGgHCnZqqyLXq7irau_PjO4pEf4q417ehOSS13CIwhGR9Wbe3WuyDmo9qrAbDU63Zix7zL0lQerSRwGntxzlFt2iLQJxzLA6T2P9bE-mcma4TulZtpOSBW1dcFQdnSMYuPu-6FP2OTWQUW1nsWAdl4IcuSqQl_b/w320-h205/20231211_081928.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>In 1400 the word 'nought' meant poverty according to the Historical Thesaurus, a browsing place like charity shops on London Road, a rest for the mind through strange provocations and this time it was my tax return, filed yesterday, that took me there. </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;">Years ago the same experience led me to a poem that became the title of my first pamphlet of poetry, </span><i style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;">Black Slingbacks</i><span style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;">. I found a taxi receipt from my boyfriend's flat. Those shoes were in his hall.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQcu04RUVK7hrP4NTJWCMKlJgfkMJ1BXoJGDG4DaqfiISw5Gjmv66Jia5dn70p4b4izsoIS0VgWah0FbeaZFBpP_O6uVzI9WEFvL7k4rmKvYF-tJoX5m8KO2JlMgZobUn2iRkoQatEf6Mkd5BKC_QkTwt9itRHWak3RRRcXjtBQ3zvawtKELc_/s1292/poor.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1292" data-original-width="924" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQcu04RUVK7hrP4NTJWCMKlJgfkMJ1BXoJGDG4DaqfiISw5Gjmv66Jia5dn70p4b4izsoIS0VgWah0FbeaZFBpP_O6uVzI9WEFvL7k4rmKvYF-tJoX5m8KO2JlMgZobUn2iRkoQatEf6Mkd5BKC_QkTwt9itRHWak3RRRcXjtBQ3zvawtKELc_/s320/poor.jpg" width="229" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This year, my mood wasn't shock but shame, because I felt it, and understood what the late sociologist Stuart Hall so often pointed out... that there's a moral tone attached to poverty. No, I don't describe myself as poor but my income was truly a pittance and takes me a very long way from what the Joseph Rowntree Foundation calculated I'd need in 2022 for a minimum acceptable standard of living.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><span style="font-family: Times; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;">I have a house. Even with damp, peeling windows, leaky roof, it's critical. And I manage by limiting my scope. </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">But don't we need to talk about money, who has it, how people are paid, what they're paid, </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">the failure of benefits to improve lives, the cost of everything from public transport to a block of butter, and the role of wealth in maintaining inequality? </span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></div></span></div><p></p><div style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFBL_raNd2NGW55WPeJp4naC0Atcp6TqzOdvxEs-mVpOJ0kJ949jDGIcHFvH0EKzAsO5nd-_Mu5L50VzM93iYsjiOee60co0fXIfzm1WdYnMOQHVAnoAHJ5g160G3BnS0LgQL-LcSTeP9-kYietFftj2p9BRIb1cA2Pl9jrW-ZNCIla8-ZgNDK/s1292/be%20poor.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1292" data-original-width="924" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFBL_raNd2NGW55WPeJp4naC0Atcp6TqzOdvxEs-mVpOJ0kJ949jDGIcHFvH0EKzAsO5nd-_Mu5L50VzM93iYsjiOee60co0fXIfzm1WdYnMOQHVAnoAHJ5g160G3BnS0LgQL-LcSTeP9-kYietFftj2p9BRIb1cA2Pl9jrW-ZNCIla8-ZgNDK/w205-h286/be%20poor.jpg" width="205" /></a></div></div><div style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;">Are you an employer? Do you use freelancers? When did you last ask how they manage when they're sick, how they manage when you take 90 days to pay? Do you ask how they pay the rent, or mortgage? Is it too embarrassing? Do you believe you have responsibilities to individuals working for you? Did you know? </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.jrf.org.uk/work/uk-poverty-2023-the-essential-guide-to-understanding-poverty-in-the-uk#:~:text=Around%20one%20in%20five%20of,3.9%20million%20were%20children" style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">One in five of us have 'come to buckle and bare thong'. </span></a><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: justify;">That a </span><span style="text-align: justify;">s</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium; text-align: justify;">ingle person needed to earn £25,500 a year to reach a minimum acceptable standard of living in April 2022. For a couple with two children it was £43,400.</span><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: x-small; text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana;">Joseph Rowntree Foundation</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></i></span></div><p></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://commonslibrary.parliament.uk/research-briefings/sn07096/#:~:text=Absolute%20low%20income%20is%20likely,same%20rate%20as%202019%2F20." target="_blank"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Poverty in the UK: Statistics, House of Commons</span></a></div><p></p><div style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px; text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-21701633641329712412024-01-02T14:09:00.004+00:002024-01-02T14:21:33.425+00:00The Poetry of Domestic Arts and Sciences <p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY2pT5ZK1JV0ueHPqHNREVz7dLIrM-bqiJY1HZhXRZdtmgQ6eBog6R4nFl-pONVrkaZ9J5kcuBsAYJPp5jlK5PPAXj7H5YjEIDExjRdhgkgC2QJ4IhklIdJflf61PwW97yGPYNW2m5K9ZcW7L9K7c0dlC18Y7Dq2Z3_1ns3Apc7k-1FFC5Wn30/s1361/stitchcraft.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1361" data-original-width="1158" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY2pT5ZK1JV0ueHPqHNREVz7dLIrM-bqiJY1HZhXRZdtmgQ6eBog6R4nFl-pONVrkaZ9J5kcuBsAYJPp5jlK5PPAXj7H5YjEIDExjRdhgkgC2QJ4IhklIdJflf61PwW97yGPYNW2m5K9ZcW7L9K7c0dlC18Y7Dq2Z3_1ns3Apc7k-1FFC5Wn30/s320/stitchcraft.jpeg" width="272" /></a></div></span></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">New year's eve, Jane and I are browsing a box of old patterns. We're also on the Lidl champagne. Most are for knitters, but Stitchcraft's one for home sewers and I have a vested interest, being in the final stages of a glamorous blue wool coat. It's challenged me - my first conventional lining attached at neck, front and hems and I've unpicked three times at least. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">But all it's cost is the lining fabric (£18) because Jane has a stock of beautiful wool given to her by a former student and she passed a length of it to me. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">What impresses me, flicking through the mag, Christmas lights on the table, in the tree, around the cupboards, was how this mag, published in 1950, rings true, like a great poem, and we agree, Jane and me, that the skills it fosters are barely talked about. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOCwr4QBz5QR9JzSX4qeeYyIwn5_uBHMAI9WqaM1uFoe-bTek8b6I3ob_UQx_viSK1yclbFUFb-Ngep7G7IEhmEeSA_GD4Hh-nc0oYWofEnTtBGE5uvdI4H87Ym5kAHYgKq0vDlvgQeuNW5YvVGUOlDirHYXmcJmjI1_m4F2S6MZgiFBgQMBmq/s1249/WI.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1249" data-original-width="847" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOCwr4QBz5QR9JzSX4qeeYyIwn5_uBHMAI9WqaM1uFoe-bTek8b6I3ob_UQx_viSK1yclbFUFb-Ngep7G7IEhmEeSA_GD4Hh-nc0oYWofEnTtBGE5uvdI4H87Ym5kAHYgKq0vDlvgQeuNW5YvVGUOlDirHYXmcJmjI1_m4F2S6MZgiFBgQMBmq/w136-h200/WI.jpeg" width="136" /></a></div>We're browsing because I want a new jumper, distracted by Shetland, cable knits, elaborate nordic and traditional patterns which women once knew as a matter of course. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">And then distracted by Stitchcraft and taking phone pics, until I go off on one about the New Look and Jane disagrees with me saying some women found it offensive in its excess. No, Jackie, she says, it was celebrating a way out of poverty, wartime. And yes, of course that's right. I'm a little on my high horse with the champagne and tired, and maybe too attached to the old dichotomy, the masses v the rich. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">So we carry on reading the box that is reminding us of a fraction of what women did, the stitch counting, fair isle, arran, bonnets, shawls, evening dresses and skirts, kids' coats, darts, gathers, ruches, smocking, pleats...</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibeBuvjPezLuQ4yqO1i-_WAt4OAasOOW3EE6t1iADQkw2mSE7Y1QLKiAGlgqovBe41tdzufrKsR3ifKpTPVmA8Qgzewis0kt4vu5aLOQWRbZIGub84QQUTZwIYn-hxF0JJfbmvhyQ9WnmV1jL_oM9ZeJK1BBN7LOyKWpukV-VQixvIUezMtgqd/s983/noahs%20arc.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="983" data-original-width="957" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibeBuvjPezLuQ4yqO1i-_WAt4OAasOOW3EE6t1iADQkw2mSE7Y1QLKiAGlgqovBe41tdzufrKsR3ifKpTPVmA8Qgzewis0kt4vu5aLOQWRbZIGub84QQUTZwIYn-hxF0JJfbmvhyQ9WnmV1jL_oM9ZeJK1BBN7LOyKWpukV-VQixvIUezMtgqd/w195-h200/noahs%20arc.jpeg" width="195" /></a></div></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I began my blue coat on Boxing Day and will finish it a few days into 2024. It's been a good use of the limbo time at the turn of the year when my notebook remains untouched. That and the odd walk with Bambi, reminding me of what matters - those waves battering the sea wall at Saltdean, and this, Noah's Ark, beached there, police tape fluttering in another gale, a warning of sorts. </span></div><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></div><p></p>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-65877717555578004372023-10-31T11:06:00.005+00:002023-10-31T11:06:39.054+00:00Who do I think I am? <div style="text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-family: verdana;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDNRj-kbaOPiIhbViaLa_N1xos_cd7Q9j9KP-MaH-J_GA3tk0pBTEQeIF3s5PLMAWiHnun0I84T6nfoCbzN6vkg7ZpRO7WOfcM1yRU7FbhTQGovvsqohB1BfXO-VIOjQM7AEpsPDfFbC2TU2m0u8MAAz4sMFFf-p6KFhqKaFJB399ZFEykTWUx/s1425/Alice_Spencer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1425" data-original-width="1070" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDNRj-kbaOPiIhbViaLa_N1xos_cd7Q9j9KP-MaH-J_GA3tk0pBTEQeIF3s5PLMAWiHnun0I84T6nfoCbzN6vkg7ZpRO7WOfcM1yRU7FbhTQGovvsqohB1BfXO-VIOjQM7AEpsPDfFbC2TU2m0u8MAAz4sMFFf-p6KFhqKaFJB399ZFEykTWUx/w240-h320/Alice_Spencer.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Alice Spencer Countess of Derby<br />a portrait attributed to someone<br />connected to Marcus Gheeraerts <br />the younger</span><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">My guilty pleasure in days defined by caring (as well as a possible rat) is Ancestry. It's produced the smoke of charcoal burners, a folk singer, the ache of limbs from hard physical work, views of Irish fields, Welsh mountains. </span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Tracing those lines is a beautiful distraction, I admit, and this morning when a line beginning with my father in Merthyr snaked into 'society' I felt the clamour of people who made me shouting 'fraud!'. I've always thought the surgeons and dentists were the only ones with money in my past. Then I discovered a couple of baronets which led to <a href="https://www.tudorsociety.com/alice-spencer-countess-of-derby-1559-1637/?utm_content=cmp-true" target="_blank">Alice Spencer Countess of Derby</a>, an ancestor of the late Princess Diana, and my 12th great grandmother. I may have to pass some of the evidence by my historian friend <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Si%C3%A2n_Rees" target="_blank">Sian Rees</a> because I'm in the hands of Ancestry's suggestions here. It makes sense superficially, but by way of disclaimer in case it falls apart, this is today's laugh out loud moment and there've been too few of them recently among the washing, cleaning, shopping and suppers. Also, it's Halloween, the start of the three day festival of the dead - tomorrow All Saints, then All Souls. </span></div>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-77535098652731386612023-10-10T12:04:00.003+01:002023-10-10T12:08:15.190+01:00Folk songs and family<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4P1x-XsMNQpdUUWP8DnJVSM3tA1xZZqULYBJQ_bfkowH72LZAj2uzBCjB1AR75nmDwUssiE4x3IaPN4-jcDYIzWwWwJ_BcPInmBMtlDqRCrMwtiy5Pn_H_FCbyfrxj4gZH3rIINMbkGn_VDxEthVlFvbI6orQrm0LqVukUj6dsZOXIfWdbtwm/s1349/20230915_151141.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="895" data-original-width="1349" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4P1x-XsMNQpdUUWP8DnJVSM3tA1xZZqULYBJQ_bfkowH72LZAj2uzBCjB1AR75nmDwUssiE4x3IaPN4-jcDYIzWwWwJ_BcPInmBMtlDqRCrMwtiy5Pn_H_FCbyfrxj4gZH3rIINMbkGn_VDxEthVlFvbI6orQrm0LqVukUj6dsZOXIfWdbtwm/w400-h265/20230915_151141.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium; text-align: justify;">Willem Maris, Duck with eight chicks</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span>We were chatting about my family name and how it landed in South Wales when Mrisi played a traditional Welsh song on his phone. He was pointing out the similarities with South African music, the gold and coal both countries have, the choral tradition. So m</span><span>uch came together around the table. He wanted me to look at the Wills in the family tree on Ancestry but I was distracted by a name that's come up often when I look into Mum's family - a folk singer called George Blake. </span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">There's another George Blake in her family history, from earlier, but the later George and his brother Moses were the focus of a song collector, Dr George Gardiner in the early 20th century. Both were singers - George, a gardener, who was often drunk as he aged, Moses was more sober in his work as a grave digger and church sexton. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Mum's brother Phil said Ida, her mother, was a great storyteller. Where did that come from? Most family occupations were labouring or similar. But as I know from the cleaning I've been doing, physical work is a gateway to dreaming. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Mum's many relatives on Ida's side didn't move far from Emery Down. Generations lived in the New Forest, working in the forest, the Veals, the Whites, Tinsleys, the Blakes all alongside each other, making alliances, like Aaron Blake in 1858 marrying one of my first cousins five times removed, Kate Sebright. Kate's mother was a Veal. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And this is how I managed to place George, the folk singer. He was Aaron's brother. And the story gets better - George married Maria Mills, whose brother was 'Brusher' Mills, known as the last snake catcher in the New Forest. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span>It's days before Mum comes back from hospital, and I guess another stint of preparing her house was what mysteriously led me back to the version of Silver Street where her ancestors lived. And Mrisi playing the Welsh song took me to my own past - to Crondall Folk Club and music I listened to as a teenager: Breton singers and harpists, Steeleye Span and Maddie Prior, John Renbourne and Pentangle, and Surrey musician Ian A Anderson who eventually set up Rogue Records - the first UK company to release the work of Baaba Maal. Which almost takes this out-of-time daydreaming full circle. </span> </span></p>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-41614449754272129142023-09-22T09:45:00.001+01:002023-09-22T09:54:09.863+01:00Coming home and thinking more<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZqnpcnHVFPlwHWSsxN14zXLdskhNUv54mGj4tVUt_fDw86dRNv7mOOfNps-2iTt88UWr5OkJGzZYXICphpyQvYQN7ZEuZU8gTZuLBejpiRRBy9idS3TpMyZihJdXQXxLKKdsAUrHbHwJ1iPUnG3SikPtQk46z-FBd5wC6BY7m0ObZKVtHiFd-/s2267/marlene%20dumas%20snow%20white%20with%20broken%20arm.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1029" data-original-width="2267" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZqnpcnHVFPlwHWSsxN14zXLdskhNUv54mGj4tVUt_fDw86dRNv7mOOfNps-2iTt88UWr5OkJGzZYXICphpyQvYQN7ZEuZU8gTZuLBejpiRRBy9idS3TpMyZihJdXQXxLKKdsAUrHbHwJ1iPUnG3SikPtQk46z-FBd5wC6BY7m0ObZKVtHiFd-/w400-h181/marlene%20dumas%20snow%20white%20with%20broken%20arm.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snow White and the Broken Arm by Marlene Dumas in<br />permanent collection of <a href="https://www.kunstmuseum.nl/en/collection/snow-white-broken-arm" target="_blank">the Kuntsmuseum, Den Haag</a>,<br />The Netherlands</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">On Eurostar from the Netherlands I wrote two poems about returning home and a poem about forgetting. I haven't knowingly written a poem for a while. I had hoped I could, after bike rides, visits to museums, spending time with Giya. I felt refreshed by being away. I saw new things, including <i>Snow White and the Broken Arm</i> by <a href="https://www.themodern.org/exhibition/women-painting-women" target="_blank">Marlene Dumas</a>, a South African by birth who lives in Amsterdam. And Snow White is holding a camera. When I went to visit mum and showed it to her she laughed. That was the response of a writer, I realised. It was subversive. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">There is lots to do now. It's a question of pacing, breathing and breaks, I'm told. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I want to think more. I've been in plant mind all spring and summer. Autumn's provoking a change. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL4V9iQwyLq02St8nx_JpYHDBq0TWaYETuQVTTKTEytaM6P3SwsImUJFUHMHRMKa6JHq5oV1MFqPzQswVh4U2Dufvr0o-KZLHpeaKo589tz1TI1I39mo6bXG_lqN3l8Flh1-oxwJWVNUuY5epMkGD0dJiQ4zyQvFfuhdZR62ub7ym3rHKyy3GO/s1914/20230915_133845.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1522" data-original-width="1914" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL4V9iQwyLq02St8nx_JpYHDBq0TWaYETuQVTTKTEytaM6P3SwsImUJFUHMHRMKa6JHq5oV1MFqPzQswVh4U2Dufvr0o-KZLHpeaKo589tz1TI1I39mo6bXG_lqN3l8Flh1-oxwJWVNUuY5epMkGD0dJiQ4zyQvFfuhdZR62ub7ym3rHKyy3GO/s320/20230915_133845.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><p></p>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-17344481260044076722023-08-20T08:45:00.003+01:002023-08-20T08:46:58.878+01:00Counting the steps and a lost bag<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIzf_NUUmK86EkztW0yN9KcBTD1TY3EMK_wcpq7ZVjRKJD2WQBT2ihnQ5X5q2yF1FD7TT2v6UlL3zr1wZsjs_9EPp456e4t6pyFzJi3eycyNK4jNL7h8K3lOOs-tfgAcY4kM3WFqncSJRDAnq9nE0Ve7QCItMfyVd9fSKwD7ljebJu_wYhZBig/s1422/20230813_094555.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1422" data-original-width="1422" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIzf_NUUmK86EkztW0yN9KcBTD1TY3EMK_wcpq7ZVjRKJD2WQBT2ihnQ5X5q2yF1FD7TT2v6UlL3zr1wZsjs_9EPp456e4t6pyFzJi3eycyNK4jNL7h8K3lOOs-tfgAcY4kM3WFqncSJRDAnq9nE0Ve7QCItMfyVd9fSKwD7ljebJu_wYhZBig/s320/20230813_094555.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>The walk I often take with Bambi yesterday offered swathes of clover, grasses and wild flowers covering a patch of the Downs that's home to skylarks, masses of magpies and crows. This is where the city sheep graze, it's where people ride, jog, walk, and down in the valley among the methane pipes, teenagers race off road bikes. </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Years ago I would have scoffed at the idea of counting steps but with seven decades on the horizon whirling its dangers at me like the blades of the windfarm, I am trying to take health seriously. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Once I'm through the underpass by the garden centre, onto paths heading for Sheepcote, the sea on my right, I feel the view and even the old damson trees have my arms and are suspending me a little above ground. Bambi trots behind, sometimes rushes in front, her ears back. I pass the Whitehawk allotments, cross Wilson Avenue, follow the racecourse to the ridge that divides the valley from the impeccable golf course. The sea's far below, my hair's in my eyes and I cut over the golf course towards Ovingdean. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGSqbZamgAbBw-gs_z4iWISeb9BCQ9EaPird1ewE0ThhUP64Sqya19XHnWIHH_UEWomoT4dsdUQjBdnCi_Os7XzIBIQZruxweYx-ob01l4QMVDmNDjjVG5rVVBZY0HU0xofEScP5is0hz9Xi_5iKcozh8y1_IxRDQCp9p2MUCVaqhAECLauwyR/s1422/20230728_174518.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1422" data-original-width="1422" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGSqbZamgAbBw-gs_z4iWISeb9BCQ9EaPird1ewE0ThhUP64Sqya19XHnWIHH_UEWomoT4dsdUQjBdnCi_Os7XzIBIQZruxweYx-ob01l4QMVDmNDjjVG5rVVBZY0HU0xofEScP5is0hz9Xi_5iKcozh8y1_IxRDQCp9p2MUCVaqhAECLauwyR/s320/20230728_174518.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">On the downwards slope I chat with a man whose small dog is bringing him golf balls. How many? Up to 30 a day, he says. He sells them back to the golfers. I tell him of another man I used to meet who collected them. He knows his name. We talk about cabinet making, mending and arthritis and carry on, down into the village, where I meet Mat, who had an allotment at Tenantry Down. He's holding tomatoes (his passion) and chatting with a man who tells us he's named two aggressive young rams Ronnie and Reggie. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Bambi seems tired, but I keep on, through Ovingdean, past St Dunstan's, one of the most beautiful buildings on this stretch of coast, down to the undercliff, a cuppa and onto Rottingdean where there are crowds on the beach. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And after a couple of bus rides, nearly at the end of my circular walk, I find a girl's bag on the grass near the grandstand - her passport, debit cards, organ donor card, a Zara gift card, her rail card. There's no way of ringing her. So it's back to town and the police station. They don't fill in a form when you hand something in. They don't want lost property, they don't want your name. I hope they traced her. So much has changed. </span></div><br /><p></p>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-49939104596105446622023-07-26T09:52:00.001+01:002023-07-26T09:52:05.937+01:00The vixen's stare<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCdXAebBeMiUQBDjDBTdp_m-7_ha9D8LA_i_UyZneawqPWpTu-1HK6aPMilD573IkOwlPimtRzldq3ZUvYfvYcYCCW5zEDs6an4vjiQibE_kPeoM7YJEUdRkdGi5aaRZGr1LggsfV5d5L98Fg0wPe0R5D-387HiexP4eHXDkNtYIenHxNnbz8a/s1529/20230418_170921.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1529" data-original-width="1321" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCdXAebBeMiUQBDjDBTdp_m-7_ha9D8LA_i_UyZneawqPWpTu-1HK6aPMilD573IkOwlPimtRzldq3ZUvYfvYcYCCW5zEDs6an4vjiQibE_kPeoM7YJEUdRkdGi5aaRZGr1LggsfV5d5L98Fg0wPe0R5D-387HiexP4eHXDkNtYIenHxNnbz8a/w277-h320/20230418_170921.jpeg" width="277" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZzGPcBFB0khyj71fuk91kGDwM8_VhUYoexYxnJhYB7-d4EWk00GE2n5440rWDunsJwMkfdTbWCHBBsHiGvV5bsUDvQkr73FT9LYOH9AnKTNuRqAZFHtJKrcmNsCtDYjqbgchwGTCLvLByqfKakdlw8U0-tBz5vqYmiyZlDwBmsc-N67xlSzMj/s2786/20220408_195159.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2786" data-original-width="1045" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZzGPcBFB0khyj71fuk91kGDwM8_VhUYoexYxnJhYB7-d4EWk00GE2n5440rWDunsJwMkfdTbWCHBBsHiGvV5bsUDvQkr73FT9LYOH9AnKTNuRqAZFHtJKrcmNsCtDYjqbgchwGTCLvLByqfKakdlw8U0-tBz5vqYmiyZlDwBmsc-N67xlSzMj/w75-h200/20220408_195159.jpeg" width="75" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div style="text-align: justify;">She sits by my neighbour's front window, sometimes tries to wander into the house and she has a face I want to look into all day, to absorb that moment's contentment. She's about the same size as a young fox that wanders across mum's terrace and when the back door's open nips in to take out the red slippers I keep there. I side with the myths of fox as messenger of the gods. I don't like the anthropomorphic characteristic of cunning. A fox walking down mum's road the other evening with a rabbit hanging out of its mouth was a reminder of truth. It went up to the Tye and waited near one of the many warrens. I could not disparage a fox for that. Humans, on the other hand, put words on the walls of art galleries and ignite fields, forests, mountains and valleys. </div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-90888865673562216262023-07-18T17:25:00.005+01:002023-07-18T17:32:47.101+01:00More on sewing and an anniversary<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj7omLonN7PEmCt_5-E668gfIfM17cHnPfBW0DkZs-ZdIDqH1qqY_pHvGLLP1lG1ZYsRr7Ow9TdU0K75LE9JZn-r1E1ozRqVQ-ryVWvf2uZ_fgItV2KEWxENxvkSa5Q41amAqr82Z4v228XNxsXX7U6Xq0Y6P0QIEoJfjAMK8gSCF_o9vq01pi/s1170/IMG-20221103-WA0007.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1170" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj7omLonN7PEmCt_5-E668gfIfM17cHnPfBW0DkZs-ZdIDqH1qqY_pHvGLLP1lG1ZYsRr7Ow9TdU0K75LE9JZn-r1E1ozRqVQ-ryVWvf2uZ_fgItV2KEWxENxvkSa5Q41amAqr82Z4v228XNxsXX7U6Xq0Y6P0QIEoJfjAMK8gSCF_o9vq01pi/w400-h263/IMG-20221103-WA0007.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy anniversary Giya Makondo-Wills (in white) and<br />Jan-Willem Tigchelaar (in pale blue)! </td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Poems this past year have, admittedly, been sparse. Last summer was given over to the wedding, and months before the wedding to growing sweet peas, Japanese anemones, cornflowers among a long list. And to sewing. Just as I am intrigued by the co-dependence of writing and gardening, I've come to see writing, gardening and making clothes as a divine trinity that came together for the wedding. Here's the family, plus dear friends who count as family. And <span style="text-align: left;">three poems on making the wedding dress (above) </span><a href=" https://vimeo.com/845912252" style="text-align: left;" target="_blank">are now on Vimeo</a><span style="text-align: left;"> for the Society of Authors positive poetry party. I made my outfit too. </span></div>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-85728731276714421522023-07-11T10:45:00.005+01:002023-07-11T11:18:18.995+01:00Friends and a view of hills<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF7SjftmDJeiCXTWCHyQDlm42dmdiv-IEJkmyStq20exGJMuQV2NCWd37kQLxLKP4rwzAZKMr4McCHIk95ZmHuFUG1lPuAtqzJ4c78nQMxamNUUF78bHh9qjsKA3rS-uEuaniM1mYj9ss03IULPKvVSfCx9HNqnxPE7BE5a8wxL5M1UovPlx7f/s4032/IMG_1883.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF7SjftmDJeiCXTWCHyQDlm42dmdiv-IEJkmyStq20exGJMuQV2NCWd37kQLxLKP4rwzAZKMr4McCHIk95ZmHuFUG1lPuAtqzJ4c78nQMxamNUUF78bHh9qjsKA3rS-uEuaniM1mYj9ss03IULPKvVSfCx9HNqnxPE7BE5a8wxL5M1UovPlx7f/s320/IMG_1883.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;">When I looked like this I was wearing a Swatch watch with babies' faces on - black, white, mixed - it's in a box with birth tags and curls of baby hair. John in LA sent me the pic. I remember the earrings but a stranger wouldn't associate the me I am now with this glossy haired woman. Whose kitchen was I in? With babies came a voracious need to write. It was always part of me and as time went on, I had to garden, too. The children were little when I took on a share in an allotment. It provided raspberries for summer and autumn birthday cakes, plums in mid summer, potatoes and beans. So I'm drawn to writers who garden, like <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olive_Senior#Selected_bibliography" target="_blank">Olive Senior</a> and <a href="https://www.panmacmillan.com/blogs/literary/guide-to-jamaica-kincaids-books-in-order" target="_blank">Jamaica Kincaid</a>, who I'm off to see at the weekend. Kincaid said about writing, “It’s just heartbreaking to see young people thinking this is a career. Publishing is a career. Writing is life. It’s something you do because you have to do it.” I've written most of my conscious life but just as it goes with gardening, it would be impossible for me without friends who sit around my allotment table on warm nights, friends who are further away, other writers I swap insecurities with.....</div></span></div><div style="font-family: helvetica; text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj82jLPViZrae7gxVu9HvdmgEn4BGsgIDXxBwpXpKdyAGMfvONmi53oN3VFXwQ3TFIJYL0-n-a8eJ_FxvSMetvT6i_10XagtAdJoCL2xkv0mhf8_3qbMzVSzOJRaoaSbOoPZYfYhWvr5ItF5clLQusxbNFa2UXy3zBqSIW2bRhEXQT5jIj5NHwZ/s1669/20230610_185701.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="860" data-original-width="1669" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj82jLPViZrae7gxVu9HvdmgEn4BGsgIDXxBwpXpKdyAGMfvONmi53oN3VFXwQ3TFIJYL0-n-a8eJ_FxvSMetvT6i_10XagtAdJoCL2xkv0mhf8_3qbMzVSzOJRaoaSbOoPZYfYhWvr5ItF5clLQusxbNFa2UXy3zBqSIW2bRhEXQT5jIj5NHwZ/w320-h165/20230610_185701.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">L to R: <a href="https://tall-lighthouse.co.uk/sonya-smith/" target="_blank">Sonya Smith</a>, <a href="https://www.janesybillafordham.com/" target="_blank">Jane Fordham</a>, <br />me, <a href="https://artuk.org/discover/artists/parfitt-david-active-19962019" target="_blank">David Parfitt,</a> <a href="https://www.michaelaridgway.com/" target="_blank">Michaela Ridgway</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table>I thought I'd go back to a big piece of writing I've been struggling with, often dismissing but which I've felt so strongly about. It's had many names, sometimes it's "that bloody book." I've associated it with humiliation, anger, confusion because I've sent it out and it's come back or not, just been ignored. The writer <a href="https://www.roberthamberger.co.uk/" target="_blank">Robert Hamberger</a> told me it took him decades to write his amazing memoir,<i> A Length of Road</i>. We've also talked about what it takes to keep going? For me sometimes years pottering, doing little except what I would describe as displacement but when you have an allotment, time's never wasted, it produces courgettes. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD1Hh3cK9yeqrPXSIsGwc-Qb9AcCN-jpASD4-Psa-noi5nmFMyRgdU1dVn0QHAho3McUq_Lue4HLCqJ-p8ebo69_uzSQihgRs31walD1Uc4ku8GDu1G_DDuWuz8yCxQUUN5OeG4aSscCjoZPoxYLCcb3_INESh3c-nMfxnWr3fgR0sly8ZqQVo/s2992/20230617_073259.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2992" data-original-width="2992" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD1Hh3cK9yeqrPXSIsGwc-Qb9AcCN-jpASD4-Psa-noi5nmFMyRgdU1dVn0QHAho3McUq_Lue4HLCqJ-p8ebo69_uzSQihgRs31walD1Uc4ku8GDu1G_DDuWuz8yCxQUUN5OeG4aSscCjoZPoxYLCcb3_INESh3c-nMfxnWr3fgR0sly8ZqQVo/w200-h200/20230617_073259.jpg" width="200" /></a>And it takes friends who've heard your self-doubt, excuses, attempts to change the subject. If writing is like gardening, if the garden is a place for working it all out, for being in a place without words, or naming things, a place you've made, planting tomatoes outside and hoping there won't be blight, risking seedlings to slugs, wondering why this year there are so many opium poppies, friends offer a view of hills, all the different greys and a dawn sky, reminding you that after midnight in the dark woods you heard a nightingale three nights running, and then the wind shook everything up. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-48949171585692577372023-06-07T08:07:00.008+01:002023-06-07T16:13:01.280+01:00A man, his land and its insects<p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKT1utGs6i7D7DBh_wwWY_iubgwfpT_pq1CRivHrAgpChidjRBjRwtYOMLH1j8S-aIwQhGWCmNlhAeD8NCwfABtGkzUf_ADKXcptgxT7ySULX_ZcQSDZfyHoEpcVN4233XhY_DaDYYbgBxqErqB7bml34xpQ8EvAk4A7-QVHHcDh1jRcNtyA/s2992/20230529_152135.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2992" data-original-width="2992" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKT1utGs6i7D7DBh_wwWY_iubgwfpT_pq1CRivHrAgpChidjRBjRwtYOMLH1j8S-aIwQhGWCmNlhAeD8NCwfABtGkzUf_ADKXcptgxT7ySULX_ZcQSDZfyHoEpcVN4233XhY_DaDYYbgBxqErqB7bml34xpQ8EvAk4A7-QVHHcDh1jRcNtyA/w320-h320/20230529_152135.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The markings inside a foxglove <br />are a map for bees</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">A friend said the other day she'd seen no bumblebees in her garden </span>this year, another wondered why there was so little buzzing in hers. Often in my mind when I'm on the allotment is self-taught French scientist, Jean Henri Fabre, whose Book of Insects is probably in my lifetime top ten. Observe, he urges, learn. </div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Fabre bought a patch of barren land in Provence and on it studied insects. He replanted thyme and lavender which had been dug up for vines, and from then on wrote about bees, beetles, the praying mantis, wasps....</div></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div style="text-align: justify;">At the start of his book of insects he writes: "See here is a Tailor-bee. She scrapes the cobwebby stalk of the yellow-flowered centaury, and gathers a ball of wadding which she carries off proudly with her mandibles, or jaws. She will turn it, underground, into cotton satchels to hold the store of honey and the eggs. And here are the Leaf-cutting Bees, carrying their black, white, or blood-red reaping brushes under their bodies. They will visit the neighbouring shrubs, and there cut from the leaves oval pieces in which to wrap their harvest. Here too are the black, velvet-clad Mason-bees, who work with cement and gravel. "</div></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/735" target="_blank">Find him on Project Gutenberg. </a></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdrq5l2ASlqMhgoCBMw0OcKPzitD9ok2hpUgA8rI3yPzHqpAQr58YKJQqrEDLZYxbfMx2ywSgTgr4omG8MAXbvjZUC_IHXBQNSmYB3A3iA38JC_mVkwecxz_qyzCf3ccSx5jy3cd1iJ-2ZUpTKfX2d0JmPDKFx9IL6648S4ZTGS7Y_iEkxZg/s265/Jean%20Henri%20Fabre%201923-1915.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="265" data-original-width="190" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdrq5l2ASlqMhgoCBMw0OcKPzitD9ok2hpUgA8rI3yPzHqpAQr58YKJQqrEDLZYxbfMx2ywSgTgr4omG8MAXbvjZUC_IHXBQNSmYB3A3iA38JC_mVkwecxz_qyzCf3ccSx5jy3cd1iJ-2ZUpTKfX2d0JmPDKFx9IL6648S4ZTGS7Y_iEkxZg/s1600/Jean%20Henri%20Fabre%201923-1915.jpg" width="190" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Jean Henri Fabre<br />1823-1915</span></td></tr></tbody></table></div></span><p></p></div><p></p>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-77534669143174571702023-05-25T10:02:00.004+01:002023-05-25T10:08:17.744+01:00A month of wonder<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWV_4_YmEU_kmtVk8Gf9HFi2k2OKn53Xwx3Rx55N4f3cws23Lee39MXvFiJWw4AFdyOkqLdKYIXDASTiplxLIE49TFAMftslD65hPZCee-_LOY17U1JBnBAV6uufQuBZDFyg5PZmfkI-sFQDdltFW0FP2rSLRLJbNX9HPbgyMFVL7esvmlfg/s2992/20230502_112733.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2992" data-original-width="2992" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWV_4_YmEU_kmtVk8Gf9HFi2k2OKn53Xwx3Rx55N4f3cws23Lee39MXvFiJWw4AFdyOkqLdKYIXDASTiplxLIE49TFAMftslD65hPZCee-_LOY17U1JBnBAV6uufQuBZDFyg5PZmfkI-sFQDdltFW0FP2rSLRLJbNX9HPbgyMFVL7esvmlfg/w400-h400/20230502_112733.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span>By some of my daughter's photos in the exhibition <br /><i>Our Connection to Water</i> at the National Maritime Museum. <br /><a href="https://www.giyamakondo-wills.com/">https://www.giyamakondo-wills.com/</a></span><br /></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Paul Simon's hit, 'The Boy in the Bubble', has been playing in my head, partly because I watched a great documentary on him and the South African musicians he collaborated with on Graceland, and partly because of how May is panning out. It's that refrain, "These are the days of miracle and wonder..." that sits in the allotment trees, that follows the big dog fox as it checks out my polytunnel, that questions the insane number of tomato seedlings I have. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The refrain, though, is also a check on despair during this month's relentless medical appointments, mostly for mum, and that it sits in the allotment trees is no coincidence. After an afternoon on hold yesterday, the allotment brought me back to earth, but particularly fire. And as I prepared a space for climbing beans, it brought me back to water. The earth is dry, it shouldn't be. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The opening lines of that song, the sun on the soldiers, the bomb and surveillance, the urge not to cry, are chilling lyrics, and of course they remind me of the lives lived by those musicians Simon worked with - Hugh Masekela and Ladysmith Black Mambazo, the band Stimela. His collaboration was controversial, challenged the artistic sanctions in place and annoyed politicians and artists. At the time I was shocked, but it's complex - the artists themselves benefitted. And indeed, my daughter was born the year of the first elections in South Africa, 1994. The country infuses her work, and the work of my son, Mrisi Makondo-Wills. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">While it's hard not to be brought down by all that's happening - old woman with dementia tasered by police, teenagers chased to their deaths, waiting lists, no GPs, no dentists, one in two young South Africans out of work, war in Sudan, I'm inclined to hope art is cleverer than money, politicians and warmongers and will continue to make its point with a photo, a poem, a drawing, a soaring tune or a lyric that won't leave your head because it's there, in the trees by the path, with the blackbird's own miraculous sequence of notes.</span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgACZmvRrsQuLXoj5Yub7w6lvAZRbNx9KNHt8HFY4JnttPB8sa2Dpsl8g6cRtQDIbHEbuskYRSZcD0hwgY4xHGgtbK26RLagoV4aGy2XZwHbBe_HnvMwIbsmTQgbYh1s8EJiIlHjCfxD0JWwtFhgkqO6XGru52ni6m0ew3lLkB2-IcCjiQ5xg/s1920/04-05-2023-214604-3361.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgACZmvRrsQuLXoj5Yub7w6lvAZRbNx9KNHt8HFY4JnttPB8sa2Dpsl8g6cRtQDIbHEbuskYRSZcD0hwgY4xHGgtbK26RLagoV4aGy2XZwHbBe_HnvMwIbsmTQgbYh1s8EJiIlHjCfxD0JWwtFhgkqO6XGru52ni6m0ew3lLkB2-IcCjiQ5xg/w400-h225/04-05-2023-214604-3361.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Mrisi Makondo-Wills @ mrisimusic <br />performing at Brighton Festival last year<br />and Brighton Fringe 31 May 2023<br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><p></p>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-49749782398732759092023-04-26T08:26:00.005+01:002023-04-27T10:24:13.551+01:00When the rich man tells the beggar <p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFW3-vpMuqAzit1VQZE4g-vUM1FZdxHsY3pwcOk2YMrcW8m9E_2p2yJ0a6CwHk2qixYvm8cJ2Nokg3C7Yx83aDDRj2ssYEvZIRb8-vFWFqLltG-45zQ2ZYJUqj4GA-K89PNIYk0BU3wgGSas9gnXXjx4WA5_L_bX0RprEviMXQ6DQdFn9T6A/s2350/scavenger.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2350" data-original-width="2291" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFW3-vpMuqAzit1VQZE4g-vUM1FZdxHsY3pwcOk2YMrcW8m9E_2p2yJ0a6CwHk2qixYvm8cJ2Nokg3C7Yx83aDDRj2ssYEvZIRb8-vFWFqLltG-45zQ2ZYJUqj4GA-K89PNIYk0BU3wgGSas9gnXXjx4WA5_L_bX0RprEviMXQ6DQdFn9T6A/w390-h400/scavenger.jpeg" width="390" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Scavenging for scraps in the car park</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I was waiting to have a tooth out when I was urged</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> to "accept we're poorer than we were." </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">I thought of my pension age forced up to 66, the </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">£50,000 or more I lost. A day went by, the tooth came out and I count that cost too as I swill my privatised gums with salt water. </span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The Bank of England chief economist harnessed the deafening machinery of public relations, as power-crazed as the factories of northern England weaving cloth for the empire, to tell me what I know. Where he slipped up was in using the personal pronoun. His fundamental error reminds me of the dandy, the ultimate self-publicist, separated from a world of working people by silk, satin and wigs. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Here, too, in the stratum of PR and personal branding, you find the artist with decades of highly paid corporate work subsidising his photography/novel/album dining with the economist. Neither suffers from self-doubt. So they say 'we'. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The trouble is, questions about entitlement are difficult to navigate. Does wealth trump everything? In the Scope £1 shop in Portslade yesterday a woman with an armful of clothes was listing her bills. <a href="https://stores.sainsburys.co.uk/0051/west-hove?utm_source=gmb&utm_medium=yext&y_source=1_MTU1NjgyNDMtNzE1LWxvY2F0aW9uLndlYnNpdGU%3D" target="_blank">Sainsburys</a> in West Hove makes you scan a receipt to get out and <a href="https://www.aldi.co.uk/?utm_source=google&utm_medium=Yext&utm_campaign=E0678" target="_blank">Aldi</a> in London Road searches bags at the till. Yes, we're poorer. The difference is in scale. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">On the subject of teeth, I urge you to scroll down this page and read a brilliant poem by Martina Evans, <a href="https://www.martinaevans.com/poems/" target="_blank">Can Dentists be Trusted?</a> followed by her poem, Cows, which I have on my fridge because it's so beautiful. </span></p>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-69076695605637517752023-04-16T09:50:00.001+01:002023-04-16T09:54:11.146+01:00Common ownership and hedge funds again<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE-NSWSkwkkbEeQbdCWFP_jaS6ri72ySNANSbB2npJ4zZrKJrD0vp-KrzrgO9OD557R6GBX4n07Th4orA0xPX8Gk2r7U1Cv3VLayXfQOKh2yjOuFPm4JGSSZR6fl0ADQFZ0YdXxpVHi9vEO3hc-6NI6TEj3TKEobkDdzn5WwtJwaRBEQgPoA/s4568/civilisation.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1971" data-original-width="4568" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE-NSWSkwkkbEeQbdCWFP_jaS6ri72ySNANSbB2npJ4zZrKJrD0vp-KrzrgO9OD557R6GBX4n07Th4orA0xPX8Gk2r7U1Cv3VLayXfQOKh2yjOuFPm4JGSSZR6fl0ADQFZ0YdXxpVHi9vEO3hc-6NI6TEj3TKEobkDdzn5WwtJwaRBEQgPoA/w400-h173/civilisation.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;">Civilisation the writing is on the wall<br />great idea, shame about the spelling</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">A free laundry for people who don't have washing machines sets off a train of thought and then I find <a href="https://josephinecorcoran.org/2023/03/30/ecopoetry-in-the-classroom-and-beyond-some-resources-and-ideas/" target="_blank">poet Josephine Corcoran</a> giving away ideas for writing with young people. But when I google <i>giving away ideas</i> what comes up is marketing strategies, and searching <i>copyright free</i> produces ways of getting around it. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Why do I remember a time when ideas and objects were freely shared? Is this age inserting lies into my past? Scrabbling around online I'm reminded of Amsterdam's free bike sharing, communes, the Diggers, free festivals and squatting. But I'm also made aware of the changed emphasis given to the word <i>sharing </i>and its digital meaning. It's this, like the dawn chorus, that wakes me up. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Perhaps I should linger in the state of mind where utopias are suspended like gardens and lost cities still have their gold. <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/2023/apr/14/hedge-funds-profit-ukraine-war-food-price-surge" target="_blank">But news of hedge funds making such enormous profits out of food, as a direct result of war, </a>has me wondering why we're not talking about this more - the people behind them, the ideas driving them, the fundamental assumption that everything we used to think of as communally owned is up for grabs by people who have money to invest. Last year we heard they own UK water companies and this is how <a href="https://waterinv.com/home" target="_blank">one hedge fund in the US</a>, Water Asset Management, is talking about water: </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">"Climate change is intensifying drought, flood, and fire. These factors provide an unprecedented period of transformation and investment opportunity for the water industry. Water companies will continue to thrive and prosper, offering investors the ability to realize capital appreciation as well as sustainable long term dividend income, with relatively low levels of risk and volatility, while delivering positive impact."</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">What will make headlines to provoke the debates we need when we have cocktail parties for hedge funds hosted by politicians? Who has the language and the understanding? </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.ohchr.org/en/statements/2021/10/joint-statement-independent-united-nations-human-rights-experts-warning-threat" target="_blank">The UN warned in 2021 about hedge funds</a> threatening the most basic human rights, listing housing, water, food, and environmental health. The term the UN uses is financialisation: "The experts pointed out that financialisation has a disproportionate impact on the enjoyment of their rights by women and girls who form half of the world population, and are systematically victims of discrimination. The impact on older people was also highlighted."</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Joint Statement by independent United Nations human rights experts warning of the threat that financial speculation poses to the enjoyment of a range of human rights. October 2021</span></i></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-68967702585989310422023-03-17T11:57:00.003+00:002023-03-17T12:02:20.698+00:00To be here and gardening<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQC9zxywpmvmJ2TggX7dABQRj9nRI4Af2WZdNSvu3eul9lBBrgNh94YslMCu3s6VVE_h64MsGsr1sHV89ndPGvl7Hge39FMABYETaJyGFbED_c3XUhAKfMje8CWQN5LFMrOG2pGokz6IXQS75O9sj76t3cJb9EOb5DDmloAt3yS9ZiSqSM3g/s2272/IMG_0141.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2272" data-original-width="1704" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQC9zxywpmvmJ2TggX7dABQRj9nRI4Af2WZdNSvu3eul9lBBrgNh94YslMCu3s6VVE_h64MsGsr1sHV89ndPGvl7Hge39FMABYETaJyGFbED_c3XUhAKfMje8CWQN5LFMrOG2pGokz6IXQS75O9sj76t3cJb9EOb5DDmloAt3yS9ZiSqSM3g/s320/IMG_0141.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">Rhubarb on 22 March<br />in my 2020 lockdown file </span><br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I was standing on this spot yesterday. It's at the top of my allotment. Below it, a small hazel tree's just shed its catkins, above is a path and the gate. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I don't remember what made me create a lockdown picture folder but it confirms the conversation I had with my neighbour Bridget yesterday - everything's late. Yesterday this rhubarb was barely visible - one was a small pinkish bud, the other a single leaf. In the same folder there were</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> forget me nots in flower and green alcanet but yesterday I saw nothing but daffodils. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">It is cold. I was cold up there even in the sun. It's wet. I've held back on planting seeds because it seemed too early, even in a propagator. The light's not quite right. I wonder if a blast of warmth will close the six days difference on the date of this photo.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Plants that are normally regenerating by now are doing nothing, the apple trees showing no buds. I'm trying to establish a new herb patch, so I've moved feverfew and lemon balm, pulled up grass and transplanted oxeye daisies, </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">dug up all the leeks because a couple of years ago allium leaf miner appeared on my plot. It's a fly, maggot and pupae and it shreds the plants, attacking garlic, onions and chives too. So Bridget's taking a break from leeks and I'm wondering what it'll do to the chives in the herb patches. I'll miss leeks, chives and onions. What's an allotment without them? My diet's built on them. </span></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwP_DJm5du4OAVSCcZG7j-79-QBImHIuHenyRAZqX_OMqw4nV67OZoS96_xKpLEMDMUHl0T7eFRsq1BBk3ii2-Y5mS4IXK5dRotmsHzM9Ogg5MLuyULkK77xShrRCpwZ6jKfOkIGLlwqP5mDBGBohE9cxQs2AJYfltl1PjckXrDQEZEGKzhQ/s1920/Pighog%20Jackie%20Wills%20Brendan%20Cleary%2016%20June%2022%20193403%20a.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1282" data-original-width="1920" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwP_DJm5du4OAVSCcZG7j-79-QBImHIuHenyRAZqX_OMqw4nV67OZoS96_xKpLEMDMUHl0T7eFRsq1BBk3ii2-Y5mS4IXK5dRotmsHzM9Ogg5MLuyULkK77xShrRCpwZ6jKfOkIGLlwqP5mDBGBohE9cxQs2AJYfltl1PjckXrDQEZEGKzhQ/w200-h134/Pighog%20Jackie%20Wills%20Brendan%20Cleary%2016%20June%2022%20193403%20a.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="200" /></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Launching <a href="https://poetrybusiness.co.uk/product/on-poetry-reading-and-writing-poems/" target="_blank">On Poetry</a><br />last summer</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">As I think about the old gardeners - what they knew and recorded, the books I've found with the gardening year illustrated in woodcuts, I realise I'm an old gardener too - two years off 70. It's an odd time, acknowledging an absence of self in the world because age does that to a woman. Gardening is a way to respond to the feeling of loss. If nothing else, to note this March is cold, the plants are late and holding back. Around me people are struggling. The ground is all we have. We walk on it, grow on it, eat from it. Keep remembering this, I tell myself, think of <a href="https://gal-dem.com/jamaica-kincaid-sees-the-world-in-the-garden/#:~:text=Since%20being%20in%20her%20Vermont,t%20find%20in%20anything%20else.%E2%80%9D" target="_blank">Jamaica Kincaid</a>, always interesting, always with something new to say <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2020/09/07/the-disturbances-of-the-garden" target="_blank">about gardening</a>. Let March be what it is. Be grateful for being here. </span></div></div><div><p><br /></p></div>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-91892957242439643382023-03-07T12:50:00.007+00:002023-03-07T12:58:59.021+00:00Satire and swearing<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBNNO6tQvRypJDxBtlGTewbMilLvW8rW4WYCev7-BxpzXbPNwVbMWHNMvyMHK1Pjer8_riCLu5sV_t2UFBoaKZ8mpRjlMiSCmO8p9zSVwtkUANZyfAMRO9V0uFO5nWiHPEWRm8yTXKyV-I93a4iav5E1kVOBt48q2pJURuAtoCgtTVTX6vlg/s950/House_of_Commons_elected_members,_1979.svg.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="950" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBNNO6tQvRypJDxBtlGTewbMilLvW8rW4WYCev7-BxpzXbPNwVbMWHNMvyMHK1Pjer8_riCLu5sV_t2UFBoaKZ8mpRjlMiSCmO8p9zSVwtkUANZyfAMRO9V0uFO5nWiHPEWRm8yTXKyV-I93a4iav5E1kVOBt48q2pJURuAtoCgtTVTX6vlg/s320/House_of_Commons_elected_members,_1979.svg.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">The House of Commons 1979<br />(image from Wikipedia)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">When James Kelman published <i>A Disaffection</i> it was 1989, Margaret Thatcher had been prime minister for 10 years, train drivers were involved in industrial action, a recession was being predicted, house prices were falling, ambulance workers were on strike, inflation jumped and there was a flu epidemic. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;">I was going to hypothesise about swearing. The </span><span style="font-family: arial;">free use of 'fuck' in print, on TV, family streaming shows, by anyone and everyone. And I was going to mention that novel, </span><i style="font-family: arial;">A Disaffection</i><span style="font-family: arial;">, and Kelman's liberal use of 'fuck' and 'fucking' as in 'fucking bastards' 'fucking right', 'fucking box of chocolates' and so on.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I'm prone to swearing myself. I allowed the children a swearing hour at home when they were little because I knew they'd heard it all in Brighton and might as well overcome the naughty novelty. 'Fuck' has become a mandatory exclamation all over. Even in what I've always thought of as a very prudish US culture. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But instead of drawing any more conclusions about what used to be called obscenity, or swearing (both words seem redundant), I'm more intrigued by parallels between the Thatcher years and whatever we call the five headed fantasy beast, <i>CaMaJoTruSnak</i> that's been in power since 2010. Political history falls before and after Thatcher. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhH7dkmHEID-iNGSrRFse7ZnYXtjKiKHatCd1YVofq56lcTsA_txNjq9b5v6zjAUkUlWDbxL7c1isB9UGIf1Dw66MTJINLrPoSBO8Pr9PCB8fBkKn1Hm2jmbsPgk-1eukQt97US99s4AnCvLKdawTmW_nKK4T_KIbC_PrrfaaehBsch1JmmQ/s389/A_Disaffection_(Kelman_novel).jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="389" data-original-width="250" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhH7dkmHEID-iNGSrRFse7ZnYXtjKiKHatCd1YVofq56lcTsA_txNjq9b5v6zjAUkUlWDbxL7c1isB9UGIf1Dw66MTJINLrPoSBO8Pr9PCB8fBkKn1Hm2jmbsPgk-1eukQt97US99s4AnCvLKdawTmW_nKK4T_KIbC_PrrfaaehBsch1JmmQ/w129-h200/A_Disaffection_(Kelman_novel).jpg" width="129" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;">James Kelman's novel ends<br />'Ah fuck off, fuck off.' </span></td></tr></tbody></table>Forgive me for repeating myself but I remember sitting round an open fire in those Thatcher years laughing with my landlord and landlady and friends about the absurd suggestion social services could be privatised. We were used to a high quality of satire. Where's it gone? Last seen on the red list of about to be extinct. I'm nearly at the end of the available episodes. Its name? The Good Fight. Watch as you'd sneak a peek into a nest of fledglings. </span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;"></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><div style="text-align: left;">And yet we have so much to satirise in this small island, cut off from everything. </div></span></span></div><p></p>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-42504684716825180962023-02-22T09:23:00.006+00:002023-02-22T09:42:20.589+00:00Thrifting, jumbling, deinfluencers and making your own<p style="text-align: left;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUtU3W9T3-ShB8v4HTx0ARQ7BAWRlzH06P0_v8T47TmcTj7T4BZyfYKSypmBivVLMPJJlPlcUZthvQhVbNO6VSYyEOCgLZvvLrtdOQt8ZsOaGszsuH5hPT-8ZeNwCdMOTAMS55AuM9y_4eMafmGjD3CZ4uMqWjOAb1O2NcCkGOjHukD-Fsg/s3543/inside%20the%20clothes%20market%20william%20connor.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3543" data-original-width="2460" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUtU3W9T3-ShB8v4HTx0ARQ7BAWRlzH06P0_v8T47TmcTj7T4BZyfYKSypmBivVLMPJJlPlcUZthvQhVbNO6VSYyEOCgLZvvLrtdOQt8ZsOaGszsuH5hPT-8ZeNwCdMOTAMS55AuM9y_4eMafmGjD3CZ4uMqWjOAb1O2NcCkGOjHukD-Fsg/s320/inside%20the%20clothes%20market%20william%20connor.jpeg" width="222" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://www.thebelfastexperience.co.uk/william-conor/" target="_blank">Inside the clothes market<br />by William Conor</a></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;">Woman's page editor wasn't how I imagined myself when I started on the local daily paper. </span><span style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;">It was in the reign</span><span style="font-family: verdana; text-align: justify;"> of Margaret Thatcher (milk snatcher) and Keith Joseph, who began the obsession with cutting taxes and public spending. My hair was purple, cropped to an inch. I wore badges and DMs. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Memory works oddly. The woman's page relied on fashion pics supplied by upmarket brands and one week, a batch came from Jaeger's PR company.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I've been buying secondhand since I was a student in Portsmouth - I lived by a road packed with pawn shops. The city was poor. At jumble sales you could pick up an armful of clothes for a few pence but when I moved to Surrey, jumble sales became treasure hunts. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Oh, that long herringbone tweed coat I </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">bought </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">and gave away.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfjpBb0I9JSL4BGGfnmJrTQbqzaYfFvTW6FlHGsHWGgecX9tneRnQETjrH0Zgs1WirOPYoidTVpW_EOsLZ6i3XxVvGoRsMmLCKBpdWviieF0nk6VhxNb08M-g7liuu3luWj3Tb_x7o1WxTo535XTSFjnZSjJDUdttgt3voyX8tATzT5qwb9g/s4032/IMG_3936.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfjpBb0I9JSL4BGGfnmJrTQbqzaYfFvTW6FlHGsHWGgecX9tneRnQETjrH0Zgs1WirOPYoidTVpW_EOsLZ6i3XxVvGoRsMmLCKBpdWviieF0nk6VhxNb08M-g7liuu3luWj3Tb_x7o1WxTo535XTSFjnZSjJDUdttgt3voyX8tATzT5qwb9g/s320/IMG_3936.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Handmade - my daughter's<br />wedding dress, my red dress<br />blue coat</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">What prompted my meander through Portsmouth and Guildford, via successive wardrobes, was de-influencers - people now telling us not to buy new. Yes, they give me hope and deliver this morning's memory. Those Jaeger pics promoted a classic 80's look - box jacket, tapered baggy trousers, men's shirts, wide collared, loose coats. But it wasn't hard to copy - designers borrow endlessly from the past. And so I wrote something like, <i>you can create the same from jumble sales</i>. It was an off the cuff remark. </div></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I might have been, but wasn't, disciplined. None of us could afford Jaeger, but anyway few of us bought new regularly. My immediate boss made her own clothes - she was a fabulous tailor. My next boss bought almost everything secondhand and restored antique clothes, I made my own or dressed from jumbles, another colleague was an impressive seamstress and I still have a waistcoat knitted by one of the sub-editors. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Coincidentally, a short story arrived in my inbox this morning by Jamaica Kincaid, a must-read: </span><a href="https://shortstoryproject.com/stories/biography-of-a-dress/" style="font-family: verdana;" target="_blank">Biography of a Dress</a><span style="font-family: verdana;">. There's so much more to sewing. </span></div><p></p><p> </p>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-33477640424053568192023-02-16T10:30:00.003+00:002023-02-16T10:30:16.600+00:00Open letter to Keir Starmer<p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNTuylo21yH8XUdEEDDmv67sNom_UU16VhQOQf2qyR-Vidnf1HJoJFdKxUFtz8fIg2vKdu-ckCNOBJJz_aB1SdbXnpgI5rgZM0A2gxboPoJRpLUWI_PIck1cHfkYVnHWT66TGliLM5tJdcgfAZS2H2oKLxmgk65BaK2rmCTxXwGCrj_hI3Jw/s944/IMG_20191125_141000.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="411" data-original-width="944" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNTuylo21yH8XUdEEDDmv67sNom_UU16VhQOQf2qyR-Vidnf1HJoJFdKxUFtz8fIg2vKdu-ckCNOBJJz_aB1SdbXnpgI5rgZM0A2gxboPoJRpLUWI_PIck1cHfkYVnHWT66TGliLM5tJdcgfAZS2H2oKLxmgk65BaK2rmCTxXwGCrj_hI3Jw/w400-h174/IMG_20191125_141000.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">An open letter to Keir Starmer</span><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I've been a lifelong supporter of Labour and a lifetime trade unionist. I was a trade union activist in my 20s and early 30s and have always supported the principles of socialism, feminism and racial justice. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">When Jeremy Corbyn became Labour Party leader, I was aware of a vast amount of energy among young people for the very clear socialist arguments he put forward. I felt optimistic Labour had a chance to re-ignite a debate about a toxic and corrupt political class only interested in profit and privatisation and to educate a disillusioned generation. I lived through Thatcher's rule and we are all still suffering the consequences of that regime, decades on, but what's worse is the almost total absence of political education now because she destroyed all the places political education happened - the trade unions and further education in particular. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">So when arguments in favour of socialism were again being made in public I felt we were at last looking at why the Tories had dismantled all we'd achieved in public housing, health, local government etc. It was an opportunity to expose the self-interest in Tory policies, the misinformation about 'growth' and low taxation. That attention could be pointed towards the benefits of free or low cost public transport, good housing, compassionate policies that would make our lives better. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Only to be utterly dismayed by the internal rifts that opened up in Labour. Instead of concentrating on the economic and moral arguments that should have been made, Labour's infighting was, I believe, manipulated to ensure the party never functioned properly again, and it extended even further to the broader left. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And bingo! Labour's ahead now because really, we're on our knees out here and there is no other opposition. So I urge you to squash what's happening in Islington right now. Resisting Jeremy Corbyn will allow the Conservatives back into power and we just cannot survive another five years of Tory pocket filling, more hedge funds and consultancies, more damage to the NHS. We certainly can't risk the return of the far right. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I am 68, live in Brighton (Caroline Lucas' constituency) and am unable to see a GP. I have been forced to go private for the most basic dental care (my dentist pulled out of the NHS and there's not one within 40 miles of the city). I live on the state pension with an extra private pension which brings my income up to £12,000 a year, so I'm not rich. My son and his partner live with me because they can't afford Brighton rents. I dread getting ill. The last time I had to ring 111, my call was returned 16 hours later at 6am. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">You have a serious responsibility now to focus on what is most important to all of us rather than being drawn into another divisive fight. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I don't agree with Jeremy Corbyn about leaving Europe. I mourn my place in Europe, but the Labour Party has always incorporated a range of views, left to right. Be a different party - allow dissent, encourage dissent, show that the way forward is to be truly inclusive in order to focus on what really matters. Be creative and set the agenda straight. Shutting people up and excluding them never works. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Labour can turn the argument around - don't let the agenda be set by those who want Labour infighting. Go for corruption: the hedge funds who own everything (including the cemetery behind my house), the consultancies hoovering up public money, Tory MPs making more on the side than many of us live on for a year. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">While I still don't understand how the UK's political class has allowed such dumbing down, it's clearer than ever we're in crisis and that crisis needs to be met head on with real world solutions, not a personality contest.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-31325778397731115942023-02-01T12:17:00.006+00:002023-02-01T12:30:00.569+00:00Welsh, Irish, Scottish, mostly<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL74gFpcgXJUdUq65FRoRhQuZWzTlqPwfpQHCqL4KcXsZ4w_YEVVXmwo-J5oeOjBLtqPUU0esOIFKg0FPdSjZo0UAFGOHGDoL2lRMeUAivR6xslE64bR6P3hLP23hVWUBvUKP0XDNF_H8IKqqenRvY8OTYxTPlZ3ncKD5c8x-Bk8qxDvxBIg/s1438/stick%20people.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1438" data-original-width="1438" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL74gFpcgXJUdUq65FRoRhQuZWzTlqPwfpQHCqL4KcXsZ4w_YEVVXmwo-J5oeOjBLtqPUU0esOIFKg0FPdSjZo0UAFGOHGDoL2lRMeUAivR6xslE64bR6P3hLP23hVWUBvUKP0XDNF_H8IKqqenRvY8OTYxTPlZ3ncKD5c8x-Bk8qxDvxBIg/w400-h400/stick%20people.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">My DNA results have come in from Ancestry and tell me I'm more Welsh than Irish - 41% of me in fact. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">The 21% Irish is from Munster, a place of mass migration. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Scottish 12%, 10% English with Sweden, Denmark and Germanic Europe making up the rest. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I had no idea about the Scottish but I guess this is a small island. I was reminded too of the</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> Slovenian women at a poetry festival years ago who didn't believe I was English. Ancestry's map of the Germanic region that contributes to who I am stretches right down to that Slovenian border. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Is it all nonsense? A modern version of palm reading and fortune telling? Is it </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">muslin mimicking ectoplasm and voices from within a soundbox? </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I think of that great poem I've used in workshops, They Tell Me I am Lost, by the American Maurice Kenny. The clue's in the title. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">How will Ancestry link this to the family tree? Thankfully </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">the allotment is calling in the sun because </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">screen time's stacking up and I don't know why I'm doing this other than as an antidote, a need to feel part of a bigger geographic community. I'm speculating</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">. What is it feeding? </span></span></div><p></p>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-5031943654248020092023-01-25T09:47:00.003+00:002023-01-25T09:55:31.329+00:00The forest ancestors again<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkyK45Z0-baHehP45WCyOWwDr0_-hNic1nY6uE74Sj26b5Osm1w9M6HwVEcyUOhcEjgFuBbHeF4vYTe8_c6ae12ycHdKEg9p0YSfSy-1q8s4gUvXa13ror4k3P_s5rnOkoZYoIlTRHu3fh1pa6NyYciMDKz9q37btvrl9zs2KIqT4yVz6Z5A/s2269/thomaswhitehorn.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1891" data-original-width="2269" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkyK45Z0-baHehP45WCyOWwDr0_-hNic1nY6uE74Sj26b5Osm1w9M6HwVEcyUOhcEjgFuBbHeF4vYTe8_c6ae12ycHdKEg9p0YSfSy-1q8s4gUvXa13ror4k3P_s5rnOkoZYoIlTRHu3fh1pa6NyYciMDKz9q37btvrl9zs2KIqT4yVz6Z5A/w320-h267/thomaswhitehorn.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thomas Whitehorn - I think a New Forest ancestor.<br />His christening is recorded in a beautiful hand.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large; text-align: justify;">In the bright frosty days when rain paused I remembered how sparrows spring clean as nesting time approaches - sweep sticks and feathers from hiding places in the eaves. Foxes are mating and calling. Something of that fever got to me in the last couple of </span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large; text-align: justify;">weeks. I've spent hours online rooting through names on my mother's side of the family.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzoBHIQHYwdAOr0FdDsc3nTcIpAeMfqshoNcz2VnQVyhwM61vJrFV3SKFPNNL9YJ-7I-HdPQSrzQoRXY1mtYH4rvFLv2RB4pdehg1nxaBsN8QNhW5hTZWNKiZcaiUTsgnlbZ-A6-kENDkw971hr7X3d8UNKb7uK96vwPHH9NSOyDr0IU3-ig/s647/20220614_110456.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="647" data-original-width="447" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzoBHIQHYwdAOr0FdDsc3nTcIpAeMfqshoNcz2VnQVyhwM61vJrFV3SKFPNNL9YJ-7I-HdPQSrzQoRXY1mtYH4rvFLv2RB4pdehg1nxaBsN8QNhW5hTZWNKiZcaiUTsgnlbZ-A6-kENDkw971hr7X3d8UNKb7uK96vwPHH9NSOyDr0IU3-ig/w221-h320/20220614_110456.jpeg" width="221" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large; text-align: justify;">There are few narratives attached to these names, other than the streets they lived in, the churchyard they're buried in (masses of them in the same one) and occupations on census forms - agricultural labourer, laundress, unpaid domestic duties. Interrupting these, a house painter, groom, a charcoal burner, gardener. Unsurprising handholds in the story that kept mum's family in the New Forest for generations, mainly around one village. For a while they lived in Silver Street, which the New Forest Explorers' Guide reckons is a corruption of Silva, meaning road to the woods. Whether or not that's true, I'll take the beauty in that name as truth. Just as I was delighted to find a female ancestor called Martha Candy. But as more and more uncles, aunts, cousins several times removed populate the tree, I feel lost again and wonder if I need to accept I'll know nothing but names and places, that mum knew nothing, not even her own mother whose photo hangs in my kitchen. And her mother's mother died young too, scattering her children, separating my grandmother from her siblings. So this is why I've done a DNA test - results due in a week. I suspect searching names is about biding time until I see whether there's more to the story I've been writing on the lines between me and the Whites, Veals, Blakes, Tinsleys, Broomfields and now the Whitehorns. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div></div>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-52563936615346666242023-01-14T10:00:00.008+00:002023-01-14T10:19:01.494+00:00To comrade tree <p></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: justify;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic48s4-br8igWJ1Ylj4eAS3RkgXBiiFdE93OVu1-IMC1ME5go2Gch66hidQoqEqgab4VjSS6yCUrYjJKdEMxzodv8l8VHsbyetqybdn6zbKaeJA2_stujPLjc8euP2yL0-w8h_tTnIeXT_1Y-tVkfrDlncJReYgckz9wwFrZDg410ASOZZOA/s2607/comrade%20tree%20kentridge.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2155" data-original-width="2607" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic48s4-br8igWJ1Ylj4eAS3RkgXBiiFdE93OVu1-IMC1ME5go2Gch66hidQoqEqgab4VjSS6yCUrYjJKdEMxzodv8l8VHsbyetqybdn6zbKaeJA2_stujPLjc8euP2yL0-w8h_tTnIeXT_1Y-tVkfrDlncJReYgckz9wwFrZDg410ASOZZOA/s320/comrade%20tree%20kentridge.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Detail from work by William Kentridge</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">What comrade tree might make of my start of the year report, is maybe a gentle suggestion, "listen...." </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">This morning, having attempted to begin accounts I have to file with HMRC by the end of the month, I was distracted by looking for a fridge for mum, by searching the wettest winter on record, and a last minute week in Provence last March when the blossom was already out. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium; text-align: justify;">As I browse the photos, the trees turn the tables and report to me, "it was a gift, that week away, and it turned into a prophesy." </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">What the week foretold was a curve into a world of caring that so many friends are in or like me are finding themselves in. A</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> world of appointments, waiting on hold, unpredictable events, ravenous for time. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="clear: right; float: right; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2368" data-original-width="3568" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigeDvLLOMNDfbrNnQplj1YqAwrFKHycmJ3dJUAT-fzp8BaNhybC6EKgVOCeTPCReVU8qftEpeIHdakURSkCb0ht2HFEY94qzbHsyVEpMtDf0gENZ0DJZA7uj_bDVLlCd3rEs0MMpWH2TMQXJURaqqQpooP_Qozo0k7OT2dt0QBZ0H2uK20yg/w200-h133/DSC05822.jpg" width="200" /></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Some friends are rediscovering the light-headedness of no commitments. Many are asking the same questions as me or have become experts and so I can ring them for answers. I used to joke about being a commitment-phobe in my sixties and into retirement. That was short lived. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Two trees stand out like postcards I might have posted to myself from nearly a year ago if I'd listened to the prophesy. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUfFLWMyQjCdyhgjoNHxQ0CvcCILM2cIBjyro68KsWbRJAPX2-8_aC5ZiqAeIL3K5RH9YXgPtvtpqvPL7SpC5dPVANx1b133nOMLqg8TAglruCxw43XuvmnUs9QTHxHBo5axs8Y9bs1iSXTwT3ULZUdhftRQv-eo7mIVUclkPK8GkLIas_g/s1999/DSC05828.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1999" data-original-width="1620" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUfFLWMyQjCdyhgjoNHxQ0CvcCILM2cIBjyro68KsWbRJAPX2-8_aC5ZiqAeIL3K5RH9YXgPtvtpqvPL7SpC5dPVANx1b133nOMLqg8TAglruCxw43XuvmnUs9QTHxHBo5axs8Y9bs1iSXTwT3ULZUdhftRQv-eo7mIVUclkPK8GkLIas_g/w162-h200/DSC05828.jpeg" width="162" /></a></div>The bulbous ends of pollarded trees used to fascinate me when I was a child and the woman's head, so sculpted among</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> the stumps, is wise and collected. She maintains her calm. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The ghost tree was in a wood below ramparts built high on a hill in one of those small towns in Provence that defy cliffs and sheer drops. The trees around it were conifers, evergreens, but somehow this silver birch grew into a landmark by a</span> bend in the path. Comrade trees, I report to you that bend in the path and all who look after others who are standing there. </div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p></p>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16757392.post-51557419933084492942022-12-17T20:48:00.002+00:002022-12-17T20:48:45.307+00:00Time of the foxes<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQUOZpUxfDYBItHHeDeALTND1rvkaWQg1LT0_3wQuIqby8djhwiz9jvaY8C0mJZ5pOlsBLYzDD_6f9jkYMNxUsXW1aNlXcdEFVvSS8wpZlLCAaDO-Sh7vpDu7WG_54eEsQMlVyYTLIBJfEvZVJTmZ9yKm9z9U9C6SJBQ9A6S_U1Bm0l8RotQ/s1414/20221115_090629.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1414" data-original-width="1033" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQUOZpUxfDYBItHHeDeALTND1rvkaWQg1LT0_3wQuIqby8djhwiz9jvaY8C0mJZ5pOlsBLYzDD_6f9jkYMNxUsXW1aNlXcdEFVvSS8wpZlLCAaDO-Sh7vpDu7WG_54eEsQMlVyYTLIBJfEvZVJTmZ9yKm9z9U9C6SJBQ9A6S_U1Bm0l8RotQ/s320/20221115_090629.jpg" width="234" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It's that time, when foxes appear on Christmas cards. There's a path made by foxes from the hole in my hedge to the fence on the other side of the front garden. My neighbour, who has a webcam, has counted at least ten different animals, plus two badgers and a hedgehog. </span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I hear the foxes most nights, from about 8.30/9pm, chattering or screeching and of course the dog goes mad, throwing herself at the window. The cat doesn't seem to hear, or doesn't care. When I come home late, there's usually one on the path. There used to be one that slept by my front door. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">When I told a friend recently about finding a fox among my jumpers, she said I'd found my spirit animal. I'd be happy with that. Cultural associations vary but pest? Never. When I asked her to leave my jumpers, she did (I'm sure she was a young vixen). She'd been asleep in my bedroom for hours without me knowing, without the cat realising, until she must have made a noise and the cat was alerted. </span><br /></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It did feel magical. Foxes have short lives. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Jackie Willshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16660011240119742970noreply@blogger.com1