Sat down to write this an hour ago, but found myself staring into space. Perhaps just exhaustion. Perhaps I am a constant day dreamer. Perhaps day dreaming is necessary.
I speak to mum on the phone, she has just had a blood test and she has a day of doctors appointments. I don’t ask her the details, I know she doesn’t like to discuss her health, something to do with her generation or just her, a need for denial, avoidance, keeping up appearances making everything seem alright so it is alright. I am sure that it was nothing for me to worry about, a cholesterol test, something routine. Life has its talkers and life has its hold it in-ers.
I had been concerned about keeping to an order of things, but each day falls and melts into the next, sometimes they are indistinguishable. What happens within the day can be of no consequence at all. Just dull. Nothing.
I sat in the bath for an hour. Shaved my legs and arm pits. A bath during the day whilst the boys and man are at school and work is the greatest of pleasures. Uninterrupted and peaceful.
I thought about all the things that I have still not done. I have not made the performance of me cleaning the kitchen with my hair dipped in milk. I have not made the film about me repetitively pushing an empty pram up the Pexwood Road. Is this because I avoid actions or that I find there is no time to carry them out ? Why is it I still haven’t made any drawings. I am lost in this screen, childcare, housework and admin. Perhaps the running has filled the space of the drawing. All these INGS. Running, drawing, filming, writing, working, gardening perhaps there are too many INGS to juggle.
Need to loose another 4.5 pounds in weight. Need to avoid alcohol and sweet things. Move more. Eat less. Reach target set. Lack of glasses. Need to order my new glasses, that would help with seeing and drawing. Need to establish better routines. Need to be strict about social life and work life. Need to be better disciplined. All this time, am I using it wisely? Perhaps I am harsh. The school day is very short, pick up time comes around quickly.
Why am I writing this?
Write about toads jumping up the canal path in the moonlight, squirrels bouncing across tarmac, sighting springs swallows and their wings of hope.
Write about the run that I went on with my friend and an encounter with two tiny new born lambs.
She knelt down close in the thick of the pasture, crouched ever so still, each looked carefully at her. They trusted her and came directly up to her and snuffled and sniffled her knees. Their mother stood on guard.
Each of us wanted to snatch up a lamb to take home, to hold, cuddle and feed it milk from rubber teated bottles.
Patrick often talks of the lambs that he hand reared as a child and how he kept them in cardboard boxes placed near the stove to warm their small bodies. I would so love to be a lambs surrogate mother.
Looking at all the gorgeous lambs in the field made me think of Samantha Sweetings art work. These two images of hers are so tender, so sweet, erotic, and intriguing. In came the lamb, 2009 and His Fleece Was White As Snow, 2008, Video Still. I too could imagine myself feeding a lamb from my breasts.
I retraced the steps that I had taken yesterday and took some footage of the lambs in the field. The lambs were fearful and suspicious of me not at all trusting as they had been with my friend. The mother sheep stared and bleated loud disapproval.
I leant right over a wall to capture some footage of two lambs cuddling each other. I was careful not to topple the heavy loose top stones onto their small, fragile bodies. A man with a dog and a camera with a huge lens stands behind photographing me. Its strange to be the subject of another persons creativity. He smiles as I look up. I wonder who he is and what he is going to do with the images. The man makes me feel uncomfortable. Photography is as good as theft. The photograph steals a moment. It captures time. He has stollen part of me, he didn’t even ask.
I think that I should question him, but instead I run away.
Humans, and animals are alike. These fields of maternal love are frightening, I’m scaring myself thinking about each of these cherished creatures being stollen from its parent to be killed. The ewes are right to be wary of me, perhaps they remember, perhaps they know that the time with their children is short lived. The fields provide temporary nurseries for fun, frolicking, eating, sleeping, and the mother sheep are so good at protecting their young but then they need to be.
Mothers Love Mothers Protect.