Coconut Generosity

I shouldn’t really eat it, though I love it. It doesn’t sit well in my stomach or my gut. So I buy body creams that smell of it instead. I follow it’s perfume. I love its texture. Those carts on the Balcon de Europa selling it in wedges, with the trickles of water keeping it fresh. I don’t mind its milk in cooking but the taste of it raw is rather strange. Why is it that some foods agree with us and others don’t? Is it all psychosomatic?

I found a fiver. It was there amongst some litter by the Bar at the end of the Prom. Was it real? Should I pick it up? Should I take it?

I am edgy today. It’s my writing and the fears that overwhelm me at times. And the edginess makes me indecisive. Should I give it to the three homeless bodies sleeping top and tail in the Prom shelter? Should I give it to him? Should I put in the bucket for the Indonesia tsunami victims? In the end I put two pounds in the tub. And he bought a packet of Quality Street for the food bank. One pound for me. In my purse. Some spending money. A gift. Something to hold. He is more generous than me. Money is a flow with him. It comes and it goes. My relationship with it is more tricky. There is no flow, much constriction. But I recognise and acknowledge the abundance when it comes in. And it does.

We talked of her church. It is a large building and very cold. She has taken to attending a smaller one, but she worries what her former community may think of her. How old is she? I am always adjusting her age in my head. It doesn’t matter. She feels the cold. As do I.

She reminded me of the beastly child in Rev. She had the same cute blondeness though her hair was pulled back rather messily by a headband. She didn’t respond to my questions. She is ‘independent’ was clearly a euphemism for what? Rude? Can a young child be rude? She is wilful, knows her own mind. It felt like disdain. She didn’t engage with me and so I didn’t with her. I babysat from a distance. She talked to herself, her little wooden horse and the bits and bobs he’d pulled out of her pink rucksack that looked like they’d come from a dolls house. I was offended because I’d been brought up to behave differently. She wasn’t me and vice versa. It’s OK. Quite restful actually. She was safe. That was the main thing.

Someone had printed out the sentencing tariff for the possession of child pornography. It was chilling. And not so long ago he was in there, in front of the camera. I still feel compassion for him. How can I not? Surely it is a compunction beyond his rational mind? There must be forgiveness.

He writes to complain about marriage.

I’m sorry I say. Mine is a joy. And it is.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.