Gooseberries (2)

I don’t know why I am so unsettled. Is it just the prospect of my laptop having to have a complete overhaul and possibly loose all my precious links or is it something else? As I walk I try to talk myself into a semblance of calm for I know that none of these things matter, not really. I reach the Perygyl and look up at the stars in the sky and they, it is magnificent, so big, so utterly beyond my conception. I want to let it all go. To let go my tight hold on it all. It is fear, fear of something nameless. I write to get to the bottom of it. And yet, sitting here in my studio waiting till I can wake him and we can drive to work with Radio 3 on and a cup of licorice tea by my side and my laptop still working, at least for now, all is peaceful. Perhaps it is the onset of autumn? It smelt like autumn this morning as I walked. There was the slight damp odour of rain-soaked earth and dead leaves are beginning to gather on pavements. Would that be so bad? Autumn can be beautiful. I am alive. I am relatively well. I have work to do, and whether it is significant or important to the outside world, is neither here nor there, it is important to me. That is enough. I am trying to live as best as I can with the least damage to the planet and my fellow man. I try to be kind, to do what I can to smooth his passage through this life. It is a small life, smaller than I’d pictured for myself but my interior life is huge, boundless, beautiful. I am ready to go inward, to become quiet. I will not fight it anymore. I am happy to be small.

And I did write yesterday. I managed it. I wrote well. Tennessee Williams apparently wrote for 8 hours a day. I can manage about 3 hours, 4 if it is going well. It is enough for me. Else I end up undoing.

Work soon. Then shopping and domestic things before I can be back here and working. I dreamt I was with H. and we were in London. I love to be in London, I told her as we walked up an open staircase in a grand Metropolitan hotel. The bannisters I noticed were made out to look like railway lines and that they were moving, vibrating, shifting. I was struggling to keep my balance as I talked to her. Can I come to stay? she asked. Of course, I said, realising that I must have a flat in London, but he is here at the moment so not now. Another time. An anxiety dream. So many people I have yet to see this year. For the time being I want to be here, home, working, keeping still.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.