Cobwebby days

Some days cobwebs are everywhere. They’re probably everywhere all the time but it’s a heavy dew that's showing them up. Monday was one such day. Here is a selection of what I saw.

It was the multiple guy-ropes (if you can see them in this picture) that intrigued me about this one

This complex structure is similar to an even bigger one that a certain butterfly or moth makes for its caterpillars, so whether it's a spider's web or not I don't know

This one caught my eye because it was balanced so precariously between two dead cow-parsley stalks. (Spot the dog . . . )

The next three pictures were taken one January (2013) and included in this blog at the time. I think they're worth repeating.

I’m afraid I’ve been bombarding you with posts recently. I shall try and take a break – at least for a few days.

Notes from a prison cell

I focus on the light

that comes from the small barred window

high up in the wall.

I pretend the concrete and brick

are rock and stone, a cave.

I listen to the screams and the thuds

and I pretend they are my enemy

from whom I’m hiding in my cave.

--

Soon, I know, I will be free.

I will run over the damp earth

in my bare feet.

I will feel the wind in my hair

and the sun on my skin.

I will lie on a bed of dry leaves

and look up at the sky.

I will see the stars

and know I am with god.

copyright ©  Belinda Whitworth 19.9.17

The inside bit

On Friday the Society of Authors (of which I am a member) emailed me about their campaign in support of Turkish writer Ahmet Altan who has been in prison since September last year and is going to trial tomorrow (Tuesday 19 September). Through this link I was able to learn more about the campaign and send a message of support. Perhaps you can too.

    I’ve always been fascinated by prisoners of conscience, people prepared to speak out whatever the consequences. Would I have the courage in their position to do the same?

In all visible respects – character, interests, appearance, background – Frog and I could hardly be more different. But we both knew as soon as we met that deep down we were the same. We lived in the same world. I suppose you could call it a spiritual thing.

    I hoped my parents would understand, but they didn’t. All they saw was what they thought was our incompatibility on the surface. They didn’t believe in interior, spiritual worlds, especially not for women.

    I didn’t stand up for my inner self. I sat on the fence, trying to keep both them and Frog happy.

    It didn’t work. I failed as a prisoner of conscience and imprisoned myself instead.

Judith Kerr, the children’s author and illustrator, descibes in her wonderful book When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit how when she was a child her family fled Germany on the eve of the Nazis coming to power because her father, a writer, was openly critical of them and in grave danger. They went first to Paris where her mother was desperately unhappy.

    ‘You and I are OK,’ said Judith’s father to her. He tapped his head. ‘We are artists. We have this extra something inside. There is always a part of us that is observing, that nothing can touch.’*

My inside bit is still very small but I think it’s growing. And this blog is helping. Thank you for reading it.

*This is a very loose rendering of the book as I read it a long time ago. Apologies if I'm way off.