Serendipity (7)

Has it ever happened to you, you know when certain words keep appearing, uncommon words that you find yourself speaking or writing? She calls it serendipity, I like to think of it as evidence. Evidence of a connection, a connection to something beyond what we know or understand. A playful thing. A reaching out beyond the veil, the wall, the ether, whatever you want to call it. It happened a few times yesterday. Ebullient was the first one. I’d written in my memoir and then struggled with it, was it right? Did it say what I wanted it to say? And then it appeared in a crossword I did at lunchtime. The same thing happened with digs. I don’t use the word. It is unfamiliar, a little crude. I tried it in my writing before settling for lodgings, or would room be better. And then it too appeared in the crossword. Is it just coincidental? Of course it could be. But what a coincidence, of all the words…..And then there was frenzied. That had been in the crossword of the night before. Perhaps the compilers are a small band of men and women who confer and share clues. Or is it the Gods at sport?

Same time as yesterday and I’m still a little weary. No writing today – I’ve to go to the studio this morning, so I will do the ‘housekeeping’ work. I’ve quotes to type and ideas to collate and paste into my sketchbook. It’s a lovely morning, no wind and the clouds are breaking up to reveal a blue sky. I wrote concentratedly yesterday – it sucked itself out of me. I just told the story, trying not to fiddle too much with the exposition. It is tricky, she is right I want to see only the perfect and the polished come out of me and onto the screen. And yet, it is changing. The way I write is changing. There is a pared-back feel to it. Economical. Just letting the words say what they mean to say. I don’t know if it is any good. What is good anyway? Who sets the premise? Is it still worthy if it is not? Your work is important she wrote in the email. Is it? Yes, I suppose it is if only for the fact it absorbs my time. My time here on earth. I am trying to work it through, understand why I made the decisions I made and their consequences. Is that worthy enough? I look up the stats to see who reads this. They are not logged, so who knows, perhaps no one. It doesn’t matter, does it?

A few stragglers about this morning. A few bedroom lights still lit. Chillier than of late for there was little cloud cover. I saw the stars. A dishevelled bunch sat outside the Why Not? club, taxis purred on the ranks and bus stops. The girl who works in the Pelican Bakery arrived for work just before I walked passed. She was opening up the double doors. What does the early morning mean to others, is it a hardship to rouse oneself? I struggle some mornings but when I’m out there, the air so sweet, it is worth it. Just to move, to stride, to feel the strength, the energy. An article in yesterday’s Times claimed that forty per cent of middle-aged people don’t even walk 10 minutes a month. Hard to credit it. Sally told me her grandmother, now passed away, refused to walk anywhere, had to be picked up and delivered. She wouldn’t let a doctor near her if he didn’t speak Welsh either, but that’s another story. I love her stories, positively pump her for them. I like the everyday funniness of them. Other people’s families. Easier to handle, easier to like….I miss my mine, as it dwindles and shrinks. Such distances. Do they know? Do they know how much I love them?

She writes of her brother. A dearly-loved brother who has Alzheimer’s. She needs to see him before he ‘disappears’.

Adieu. Till tomorrow.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.