September and I’m editing the story – the book – the novel – the whatever – aka Butterfly Coffee. Third in to fourth round. A change of main character, of emphasis. It has been helpful to have others crit my work and me. Asking me why I am compelled to tell this story, what I can do to improve it and me.
It’s not been an easy process. I lost it once. Retrieved some of it. Some of it written by hand or printed. This turned out to be a blessing as it made me evolve the tale, it made me let go. and I do not let go easily, of anything.
I had a bit of a scare this week and was sent to hospital where I spent the day being shunted around on a wheel chair ( I could have walked!), monitored here and there, waiting for results. Eventually they let me away – they could let go – ruling out another escalating MI. The pain, they concluded, was muscular – not my heart, but other muscles. Asked if I had taken painkillers I replied no. So they stuffed some in my pocket and home I went – on the bus! I wondered if knitting could have done it. I certainly don’t do many strenuous weight-lifting style things any more. No more logs to stack!
It dawned on me as I sat in a corridor that my father died of his second heart attack on 24th September – six months after his first, the same hospital. Let’s not go there, hey. I went to visit his grave today – he’s looking pretty much okay, says all is fine. the aroma of Turkish coffee and Woodbines lingered, as always. I came across the artist Alexandra Dvornikova recently – this image reminds me of me and my father. He was definitely a bear, a very protective one.
I like the transition from summer salads to autumn vegetables – red cabbage for coleslaws, a hearty green cabbage salad, nuts and apples, soups, casseroles, crumbles. I am in a purple mood – my knitting is all purples at the moment, I’m liking purple fruit and vegetables too!
I’m also interested in playing a balalaika – giving it a shot – if I can. I’m learning Italian again, watching Samurai films, exploring Nordic patterns. Books – arriving in the post from far away places. The Slavic in me is a strong force, a flow I have to go with. My father knew what he was doing when he taught me so much before I went to school. It’s always left me straddling two worlds and having an interest in many places and cultures. I have come to accept that’s how I am. Many not few.
There ends my weekend burbling. Why do I write here? I write everywhere. This is only one part of the story!
Balalaika come to me…