in the evenings I sit in the corridor and copy the artwork on the walls; I managed to swap one drawing (a Van Gogh image of lillies) for two packets of Opal Fruits (or "Starburst", as they are currently known), my favourite so far is the Hepworth "holes" picture. . .

. . . some people walk straight past as I draw others want to look (but I'm shy!), some sit down and we talk about art - have had some lovely converstations about Hepworth's studio and the sculpture in its garden atop the hill at St Ives (now part of The Tate)

yesterday I had all day with which to occupy myself so I sat in the garden and drew (or attempted to) the things I can see from my "not raining/50%+" place

the well stocked garden border which I look along the length of stretched out in front of me - the "daisy" plant, with its dead heads, its new buds, the white petalled bright yellow centred flowers and all; something with big curly thick leaves and short fibrous stems, that look like stubby rhubarb, but isn't rhubarb; something with big zig-zaggedy-jaggedy-spikey leaves and long stalks of many individual flowers that are a little like a cross between snap dragons and foxgloves; something with big crinkly purple petalled flowers with orangey-yellow centres, on the end of long straggley stalks; the generously proportioned poppy, upon which originally when I arrived there were many pale lilac coloured petals, now it's just the seed heads, slowly turning from a pea green to a crisp dried up yellow; some orange lilies, some yellow lilies and some deep deeep deep almost black purple lilies; a hugely-tall-elongated-reaching-to-the sky thistle, the flower heads of which have had waves of tiny lilac flowers travelling up and down them - attracting many a bumble bee. . .

the view looking up thru the blossoming cherry tree I drew the branch, twigs, and stalks of the leaves, and the leaves themselves as they overlapped and their colours changed as the sunlight dappled thru them

then! it occured to me that was was most interesting was the dappled sunlight - coming thru the gaps between the leaves - rippling over my paper (like many small pebbles being thrown in a pond at random intervals) as I drew my chosen image

so I drew the shapes of the sunlight on the page quite tricky, as it was very breezy and the leaf shadow sunlight ripples were moving and flowing across the page totally randomly

I ended up with some lovely sheets in my sketch book full of odd-shaped-not-quite-circular/oval/elipse/rings and overlapping curly lines. . .

it was a strange sensation, drawing light and I have no idea if I will be able to add colour, or how - but the simple black lines on a white background are quite effective

:-)

TGD asks "meet me halfway"

.
and that is making me think - YIKES!!

Halfway down the stairs
.
Halfway down the stairs
Is a stair where I sit:
There isn't any other stair quite like it.
I'm not at the bottom,
I'm not at the top:
So this is the stair where I always stop.
.
Halfway up the stairs
Isn't up, and isn't down.
It isn't in the nursery, it isn't in the town:
And all sorts of funny thoughts
Run round my head:
"It isn't really anywhere!
It's somewhere else instead!"
..
A A Milne

NOBODY expects the Spanish Inquisition

Mary Mary quite contrary
,
How does your garden grow?
.
.
With silver bells and cockle shells
.
.
And pretty maids all in a row. . . .

In the town where I was born,
Lived a man who sailed to sea,
And he told us of his life,
In the land of submarines,
So we sailed on to the sun,
.
.
Till we found the sea of green,
And we lived beneath the waves,
,
.
In our yellow submarine,
We all live in a yellow submarine,
yellow submarine, yellow submarine,
We all live in a yellow submarine,
yellow submarine, yellow submarine.
All our friends are all aboard,
Many more of them live next door,
.
.
And the band begins to play.
.
(Trumpets play)
.
We all live in a yellow submarine,
yellow submarine, yellow submarine,
We all live a yellow submarine,
yellow submarine, yellow submarine.
.
(Full speed ahead, Mr. Parker, full speed ahead!
Full speed over here, sir!
Action station! Action station!
Aye, aye, sir, fire!
Captin! Captin!)
.
As we live a life of ease
Every one of us is all we need,
Sky of blue,
.
.
and sea of green,
.
.
in our yellow submarine.
( Ha ha ha! )
We all live in a yellow submarine,
yellow submarine, yellow submarine,
We all live in a yellow submarine,
yellow submarine, yellow submarine.
.
(fading)
We all live in a yellow submarine,
yellow submarine, yellow submarine,
We all live in a yellow submarine,
yellow submarine, yellow submarine.

.

THE BEATLES

The Treatment

well, according to one of the nurses, I'm "cheerier" than I was upon arrival. . .

(which, to be perfectly honest, wouldn't exactly be difficult, as I was somewhat miserable it has to be said)

she also told me that I was "less scary" than I had been. . .

ho hum

yours truly. . .
"scary"?
moi?
.
surely not!

quite possibly. . . but not anymore - a few volts or milliamps to the brain a couple of times a week and smiles all around, eh

smiles masking the bewildered looks of "I can't quite remember. . . " everytime someone asks you something that you would have known a couple of weeks previously, that is

that's probably a small price to pay for a sunny/ier disposition, tho, wouldn't you say?

apparently it will come back in time - my memory; whether it will be accompanied by scowls or whether the disposition will remain bright, I wonder. . .

l0sing one's memory is very strange, because you can't remember what you have forgotten! so you don't know what you've forgotten until it becomes pertinent to a conversation, interaction or discourse; it must be a little like premature senility. . . only you're very aware of the issue

and things seem less important all of a sudden - whether that's my memory or The Treatment, I don't know

and it doesn't seem to matter, either!

a little something for dave

one of these is an image of baklawa, a Middle Eastern delicacy (of which I am rather fond, that much has to be admitted) and one of the following is an image of ladies (?) sporting balaclava (of which you seem to be rather fond)

now, where were we. . .

the one in which ILTV goes AWOL

on Saturday I got myself in such a state, that I walked out. . .

. . .all the way home

I don't think I was supposed to do this, because by the time I'd made myself a cuppa, the police turned up

no, not The Police (which is odd really, seeing as I had already chosen the tune for the day by then, so that would have been a nice coincidence. . .), but Her Majesty's Finest. . . two of 'em, young enough to be my children, at my front door. . .

'kay, so I suppose I should have mentioned to someone here that I was off. . . might have been the polite thing to do

ho hum

that wasn't where my head was tho - not that I was being rude. . . dunno what got into me really - I told The Nice Officer that I hadn't been sectioned, and thus was perfectly entitled to walk out if I felt like it

her colleague checked on his transistor radio that this indeed was the case:

"The lady
hasn't been sectioned."

just then the van turned up. . .

oops

I think they would quite like to have repatriated a mad-woman back to where she belonged for want of something better to do on a Saturday afternoon (guess the football season is over, eh) - no such luck! of course, when XCH and the boys turned up a short while later (they had been in the middle of a Chinese, apparently)(yes, it was lunchtime) there was a little more serious conversation and then The Nice Officer and her colleagues left us to it. . .

(altho, they did whisper to The Teen that if mum and dad ever argued, he could always call on them for help) (I had already explained to TNO that XCH and I didn't have that kind of relationship, and in fact were very amicable) (The Teen could barely bring himself to make eye contact with The Nice Officer) (he probably fancied her!)

the most amusing part of it was the message on my mobile from the nursing staff here for my psychiatrist, detailing the fact I'd gone AWOL and that the police had been called and that the "Missing Person's Procedure" had been followed (don't think part of that procedure was to leave the message for him on my phone, but there we go - nobody's perfect)

the most worrying part of it was going to church this morning and talking to one of my good friends and inviting her to see my new house and her saying "erm, I've been over three times already. . ." and realising quite how badly my memory is being damaged by the ECT

irises, pink, green

in a corridor I walk along here daily (hourly, probably, if truth be told), is a print of a painting; it's not the Hepworth (that's a different corridor), but it has the same effect on me as the Hepworth. . .

it makes me think
of the things I don't know about
.

and it has one additional effect. . .

.
it brings a tune
to my mind

and since - even in my current state - I'm all for a spot of self indulgence everynowandagain, enjoy. . .
.

TAKE ONE SET OF:

.

.

THEN PRINT THIS:

.

.
NOW REMEMBER WHAT IT WAS
TO BE A CHILD. . .

.
(could be more or less as follows,
doesn't have to be anything like it,
you don't even have to stay in the lines!)
.

.
and in the meantime,
enjoy listening to this:
.
Starry starry night, paint your palette blue and grey
Look out on a summer's day with eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills, sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills in colors on the snowy linen land.
And now I understand what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity, how you tried to set them free.
They would not listen they did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now.
Starry starry night, flaming flo'rs that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze reflect in Vincent's eyes of China blue.
Colors changing hue morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.
And now I understand what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity how you tried to set them free.
Perhaps they'll listen now.
For they could not love you but still your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight on that starry starry night.
You took your life as lovers often do;
But I could have told you
Vincent this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.
Starry starry night, portraits hung in empty halls
Frameless heads on nameless walls
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the stranger that you've met, the ragged men in ragged clothes
The silver thorn of bloody rose, lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.
And now I think I know what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity how you tried to set them free.
They would not listen they're not list'ning still perhaps they never will.

.

DON McLEAN