Spider Silk


It wasn’t there any longer. The golden spider silk cloak had gone back to Madagascar. It was amazing, the man at V&A information desk told me, amazing. Yes. I am sure it is. And those giant puppets in Liverpool. I want to see these things. I want to be in there presence. Does the paranormal exist asks a questionnaire? Oh, yes. Life is beyond normal, beyond ordinary. See the wonders. Such wonders. The tiny and the massive. Life explodes with sensation.

London was fun. I felt alive. So much to absorb. The sun shone. The sounds, smells, sights all exaggerated. Coffee in the Monmouth Coffee House. I rush to stand, to place myself in my favourite haunts. To find myself there. To be there. It is enough, that revisiting.

Back home I walk to the sea. Early. I heard snoring. He was lying on the first tier of the scaffolding around Alexandra Hall, wrapped in some lagging. A group of kids were shouting by the pier. One shouts a greeting at me. I smile. I wanted the peace. But that is OK. The birds shout too. The oystercatchers peep, the seagulls screech. The water though was still. A lapping quiet. It is good to be home. To be with my work. Useful. But I miss. I miss that aliveness. I miss my aliveness. All that possibility making me feel beautiful.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.