It has been a busy week. Wood delivered, and requiring me on the business end of a barrow. With a punctured wheel. No matter, a friend suggested a new wheel, one without an inner tube, duly purchased. Nurses came in to take bloods (standard checkup), Marvellous May, the cleaner made a ‘lot of noise’ with the hoover, as if it was ever possible to make none at all, and we made a trip to the optician. Yesterday the guy came to set up a personal alarm for His Nibs and recommended that he shouldn’t push the red button if I am in the next room.
I love when there is nothing in the diary. There is something so peaceful about nothing in the diary, like I could willow-the-wisp in my scumfies and slippers for days on end. However, it doesn’t often happen that way. In between events there is space. The key is to be able to notice that space before the old brainbox gets busy filling a natural hole. It is surprisingly difficult to s t o p. To sit, to watch the clouds, and not to see that the floor needs sweeping, again. I practice it, this art, endeavouring to stop the white noise in my mind. However, I have now learned that trying to stop anything is a waste of energy. Resistance according to the Queen of the Borg, is futile and she is right, because in the resistance process the only thing that fronts the mind is the very one I want to resist.
For example…….I came home to a new wet room. I alone chose the colour scheme, online, and thousands of miles from here, although the word ‘scheme’ is hardly the truth of it. The walls, a swirly beach, called Moonlight on Sand and bearing truth to its name, are fine with me. The floor, called Beach Hut, (you would think all is well at this point) turns into a wide spread of pale lilac. Hideous at best. I am not a lilac girl at all. The floor and the walls and, in fact, the whole wet room is a very professional job. I have nothing but praise for the builder who, bless his big heart, met endless troubles during the work, including a leaking water tank in the loft. The floorboards are wonky chops and the plaster is flaking off the 184 year old stone walls and he had to deal with all of that and more. He is, simply, the best. But, I still have a rise of nausea whenever that expanse of lilac brilliantine’s my eyes thanks to the very bright overhead safety lighting for safety lighting.
What can I do? Well, I can spend a mint changing Beach Hut to something that co-ordinates with Moonlight on Sand. I can stop looking at the brightly lit lilac dance floor, keeping my eyes on the Moonlight. I can sigh and get over myself. Or, I can add a little something of my own, something that will make me smile whenever I encounter the clash. Not a resigned resistance, but something that rebels against the ‘scheme’ without compromising safetynessment. Something nobody can trip over or struggle to negotiate.
Graffiti. I love graffiti and always feel a little sad when I see council workers madly scrubbing it off bridges or tenement walls in the pouring rain in luminous jackets. Why take it off? It’s art and it’s prophesy after all and besides, neither the concrete bridge, nor the grey tenement walls had much going for them in the first place. However, my graffiti will not be aggressive, nor accusatory. Mine will be uplifting, like daffodils in early Spring, giving the reader, whose bottom will be on the high-rise toilet for safetyness, at the time, inspiration.
I grabbed a permanent marker, and I began.