Peek inside my tumbled thoughts

They’re scattered over everywhere
Yet what you seek, you’ll find
Peek inside my tumbled thoughts
And see what fun you find
Unwrap each precious, velvet thought
Repeat the neurons fired 
Catch echoes down the rabbithole
And learn how my mind’s wired
Sometimes in life you have a series of coherent thoughts, or events, which occur with startling juxtaposition between the vital, the profound and the ridiculous, and they pile up on top of one another like wasted hoops thrown at pegs in a fairground game – none of them sufficient to merit recounting on their own, yet together proving a delightful jumble of tangled, glittering wonder.
Come on in and see…
A morning of thunderous downpours alternated with bright, hot sunshine, and an emotional hangover from a newly resolved fight were both made better by the insistent, darling presence of one of ‘my kids’ – a 9 year-old I’ve known from birth – who delighted in walking me carefully, eyes closed and stumbling, guided by her giggling hands, around the unfamiliarity of her new home. We snuggled her new hamster, danced to Stevie Wonder and had *high-ten* through *high-100* after she mastered the art of doing a handstand against a wall (cue the pair of us, upside down at once, and chuckling, toes pointed up at threatening rainclouds and delphinium-blue, our hands on flagstones which had already dried from the last shower).
* * * * *

Turning two bored kids into superhero cloud-ghost fighters, to wile away the walk on the way to and from the shops, hoping that their new powers of interestedness really will somehow stave off the EPIC RAIN for long enough to get back in the dry. Then having to copy the moves, in spite of the burden of shopping bags, so that even only at “half power” I can support their efforts. Be rest-assured – we succeeded and the cloud-ghosts remained ensconced in their nimbus.

* * * * *

Noticing a load of #YesAllWomen hashtags on twitter and following a little of the (?)self-righteous spouting of (?)justified tweeters proclaiming the rights/entitlements of women and decrying the behaviour of misogynists [just a side note – who tears women down worst? or most consistently? men? other women? their own selves? – thoughts, y’all?] and it just left me wondering why the hashtag wasn’t #YesALL. Because when some nutjob claims entitlement to sex, and takes rejection to the point of shooting his alleged rebuffers, it’s not just a problem for women. It’s a problem for everyone. We’re all in this world together and all we have the right and the ability to control is our own behaviour – each of us – alone in that sense, and yet surely stronger and more supported if we pull TOGETHER to try to combat these piss-poor attitudes, rather than acting divisively and trying to apportion blame to any gender in particular.

* * * * *

Singing Niece to sleep, then realising that Neff is still very much awake, and for ease, climbing in with him – melon-shampoo-scented hair tickling my cheek, minty breath coming in ever slowing rhythm, cradling the soft, lavender-talc-coated limbs close to my chest as my favourite six-year-old in the world drifts slowly off to sleep.

* * * * *
Taking a marker pen to the beach to doodle fish and seagulls on the flat stones, imagining aloud at the surprise which will befall the finders, as two children hurl them away from us into the sand, to await discovery.
* * * * *
Collectively achieving a respectable amount of writing, when considered across the next chapter of the story, a new ‘Tales from the Van’ post for D-Day (June 6th) and this post, as well as the current week of the distance learning fiction course I’m doing. And though there are no new pieces, movement was made on an exciting poetry project I’m involved in, and my work has been submitted for scrutiny and approval.
* * * * *
Giving serious consideration to the number of goats I (or another) might be worth, whether or not it is better to be valued in terms of albino peacocks and white elephants, WHO managed to be a 10-goat-girl (I was worth 9, apparently) and what on earth the plural of ‘platypus’ is. [I began with platypuses, then hedged with platypi and platipeese, cos who knows?]
* * * * *
Contemplating the bizarre wonder of a world where conversations, laughter and friendship can hang in that mysterious place between continents, ties strengthening alongside the wings of the albatrosses as they circle the globe. The sea keeps breathing and connections grow day by day, enabling shared experiences and the kinship of minds in spite of the limitations of geography. This is a beautiful new world, and I’m glad to be part of it.
* * * * *
Looking out at the ever-lightening skies behind the venetian blinds, having spent an entirely satisfactory night prior to a bank holiday, getting nothing in particular sorted out and some thoroughly good words to page.
The morning chorus sings my lullaby.
And so to sleep, perchance to dream of vaulted ceilings, an impending picnic and the next chapter of the book (or at least to hit upon a suitable song to muse upon). In the meantime I discover that my Muse is one incredibly smart cookie (having won at Trivial Pursuit, elsewhere in the world), that my eyes are no longer tired, and that certain darling expatriates in Germany are susceptible to flattery (which may or may not get me out of a tight corner, should I indeed WANT to get out of it) – so because she’s completely wonderful (and I want to see how far I can push this) I’m dedicating this post to her. And you should go check her out – she’s awesome.
Whistle-stop, that train of thought
Unwinding ’round the track
You must suppose, no junction closed
That it will bring you back
To whence you came, indeed it did
It does; it shall; I will
Thus here at ‘End’ I wave goodbye
And hope you’ve had your fill.
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