A woman was walking up the hill as we passed.  She was not out of breath, and  looked used to the steep
climb. Her face seemed unmoved by her surroundings, just looking at her shoes and dusting her coat with
her hand. “It’s just ordinary to her”, I signed and wondered why sun drenched beaches have so much appeal.

The wide moorland stretching up to the peaks seemed empty of life, no sheep, just miles and miles of green and brown.  A forest of darker hue at the foot of the peaks, with snow reaching skyward. Yet this was only twenty five miles from from a big city.  This is the scenery that feeds the soul and gives life to the senses.  It all looks lovely on TV, but getting out into the wild countryside, wind blowing, rain and snow forever threatening, stimulates the senses.

If  I were seen by a satellite way up a few miles beyond the atmosphere, it would be showing a silver object slowing moving across a vast wildness.   Is this what is meant by  experiencing life in all its wonder? I once sent a story to  a magazine and got back a note saying one should write about what one knows.

I have often wondered if this were true.  Was it true of Mary Shelley forinstance or Tolkein. I don’t think their subject matter was very easy to observe  somehow.Whereas Wordsworth and Ian Fleming could reference their work from their experience.

But there are some things we must see for ourselves to render a breath of reason to the world of writing. The vast wildnesses of the world, be it desert or forest or mountain or moorland, give a balance to the urban sprawl while stimulating the imagination.

It is the imagination which gives form and vision to an individual’s view of the world. The empty places  can give an individual insight between the self and other people, the crowds in the cities and the sometimes emptiness of the countryside illustrate the changes one can see and the lifestyles that are so different.  Imagination can be stimulated by this difference.  I don’t think I have ever read of a test which actually measures imagination?  Is it just the ability to understand from another perspective other than our own.

In writing is  it the ability to describe in words what a painter can do pictorially? “Do we see ourselves as others see us”, as Burns suggested. Or is it we can stand back and refresh our view of the world and see what is and what might be? Perhaps it is just being able to be, and see and feel, that  provides the food  the soul needs.

“Stop and take a photograph”.
Another way  to reference the imagination.

The round disc which seemed vast, white with dark shadows giving a human expression at times, made me want to write about it. So I ran downstairs and demand a pencil and paper from my parents who must have looked puzzled at their five year old running around the living room seeking these items. I then sat and wrote my first poem. It was called “The Moon”.

The first line was “The moon floats on a silver sheen”.

Once done I hurried up the stairs to my parents big bedroom and sat again at the window.

This time I read my poem out loud looking up to the object of my delight.

The little poem of about five lines is kept safe, a treasure of my childhood.

I mention this to give an example of the impression nature can make, and how inspiration can occur.

The topic was brought to mind via listening to ‘The Today’ programme on the radio, where a discussion was in progress regarding a new competition whose aim was to encourage children to express  themselves in poetry.

The poems will be read and comment given by well known poets to encourage the creative juices in the next generation.

The poems can be turned into song lyrics, which many might consider, but there is a need to give voice to feelings of admiration and wonder, sadness or fear in most humans.

A few months ago, I sat on a train going home, and looking up at the sky there again the Moon took my interest. This time it seemed like a huge planet, half covered by a cloud.

Was it real? It looked like a scene from a film showing another world with this huge disc just out of reach.

The train moved faster and the image changed with the movement of the train and the clouds.

This I thought was the same object I had watched so long ago. The same moon that Shakespeare mentioned in the lines “What light through yonder window breaks”,

The same moon that inspired the words “One small step for man…”.

Everything begins with small steps, it is what happens next that matters, perhaps the small steps encouraging poetry in that competition will result in a major dramatic development in the future.

At least perhaps the connection between words, feelings and the world around may come to life.

It seemed a straight forward phrase. After sunset on these dark winter evenings the sky is an inky blue with sparkling stars, the air gets colder and any hint of water freezes on pavements and grass.

A walk on such an evening, cold though it might be, can refresh the body and lungs while being perfect for a mediation of the elements.

The walk along the path to home was quiet and looking skyward the vast blue sky was clear and the air crisp. The light from the local supermarket beyond the local green space (a football pitch), giving a warm glow. There in the distance was a huge Moon, showing clearly the dark and light of its surface which one feel could be touched, if the arm was held out towards it.

Think of all the references to light, night and moon in literature. A thought to combine the mind and senses as the walk proceeded. Of course the obvious one which came to mind was the play Romeo and Juliet: “What light through yonder window breaks etc”. Perhaps the most famous love salutation in any play.  Light is used as a metaphor for love in many genres.

Or again light is used in reference to knowledge for example in the phrase “To see the light”.

As I walked home these thoughts came to mind with the remembrance of the warning.

Was the phrase used to infer something other than the basic literal meaning?

Was it a reference to some other part of the conversation?

What did the body language of the speaker add to the meaning of the phrase?

I had been to a talk on Neuro-Linguistic Programming recently and I put topics from that into my reasoning.

A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing (and also make one very discontented).

Would I have pondered so much if the conversation had been made on the telephone or in an email?

How would the phrase sound on the telephone, would it be indicated differently on the telephone perhaps.

Then a thought came to mind, what if someone did a few scenes from that play on the telephone?

A new version of Romeo and Juliet?

Perhaps it could be marketed entitled The way Romeo would have said it in 2010, but then there is always a text.  It is amazing how language can stimulate the mind in so many directions.

Was all this thinking because I might have been a little nervous walking home, the weather, the cold, the previous injury, or even the dark could have been the cause. One could pick any word and reflect on what it connects to in literature. A little mind game to pass the time.

Oh, the rush of cold air with the lowering of the window, it was indeed -7 degrees or at least very cold. Of course such a scene might not be pleasing to some individuals, who perhaps prefer crowd noise and the rush of a city.  Such aspects I can enjoy at times but when the need arises the sights of such days in the mountains can bring joy to the soul and refresh the senses. (Despite getting a slight taste of frostbrite on my mouth, what must it be like in the Artic?).

The frost became mist and fog, and the temperature increased to -5, the -2 then 0; we were now in Border country. On such a journey one sees the countryside and the changes in the scenery from wild abandonment to urban sprawl and how human beings adapt to the changes in their style of living.  Events eslewhere in the world are more dramatic perhaps, yet this adventure is stimulating and gives illustrations of the variation in present day living. The roads around big cities, coming in from everywhere, the sudden stopping, waiting in a traffic jam for up to an hour, the cars moving in and out of lines trying to get somewhere, but having to wait like everyone else.  Was there really so many cars built? Was this happening in so many other big cities around the country?

The need for freedom and refreshment exists,  places where these feelings can be recognized and given expression need to keep existing.  The emotions felt via the sights, sounds of our planet help make us who we are.The frost is an essential part of our climate as is the sunshine, they help to maintain nature and nurture.  Lets hope a balance is created by nature and technology to maintain such essentials.

It is only when one is thus restricted the value of the freedom to for a walk, go to the shops go to the nearby coast, shines in the mind like a beacon to struggle towards. A goal without presidence. At first it seems so far in the future one just concentrates on the present situation, listening for the sounds of normality in the house and outside, looking forward to the comfort of other people. But as one settles into a sort of routine of maintaining and encouraging one’s self to keep going and ‘heal’, something to pass the time is vital. It is then that one considers writing.

At least that is what happened to me. A sense of frustration was paramount to feeling better, but still unable to walk downstairs for instance. Therefore a large red exercise book with clean white pages looked enticing. There is something very appealing about such an empty book, just waiting to be filled with words. Many may say, ‘abook, what about a laptop?’.

Mark Twain | Writing in Bed

The laptop did make an appearance later in this procedure of getting well, but at first the comfort of just sitting resting the poorly knee, pen in one hand, paper in the other was sufficient.

But what does one write about, that is the question? What does one write?, A diary like Pepys, or poems, or a novel? I tried to recall any story of someone writing in a similar situation, then decided on describing how I felt when involved in a Poetry Society examination in regard to reciting Shakepeare. I had to read a speech of Queen Margaret from Richard 111, in which she curses Richard, the ‘bottled spider’ who will deceive and kill, and then I concluded with a speech of the Nurse in ‘Romeo and Juliet’. Somehow the Nurse speech was delivered with an Irish accent, which I never rehearsed, and which made the examiner laugh and remark that the Stratford production had just such a nurse with just such an Irish accent.

This fact was not known to me and lead me to reflect on plays I had seen, theatre visits, and before I knew it hours had gone by. I wrote the events of this occasion in my book, then decided to try to write something everyday while thus confined. The injury improved with cold compresses, massage and physiotherapy, but also the stimulation of the mind.

My poor effort for the was evening written on a piece of A4, while others had bookmarked well worn editions of poetry favourite collections, which were now in their hands and their expressions were of nervous anticipation. I sat down at a small table and looked at my piece of paper.

Did it rhyme? Should it rhyme? Would it make sense?  “She’s rehearsing her poem”, I hear someone say. This comforted me, at least someone realised my feelings. We all sat in a corner of the Upper Gallery Vestibule, seats arranged in a semi circle, then the poetry began. The first was a vast historic poem on the authors’ hero Nelson.  It described the battle of Trafalgar and the death of Nelson and was performed with gusto and a real feeling for the event.  A grand opening to the proceedings.

A verse from Camus was read in Japanese then English and whose philosophy was understood by all those present in both languages. Then John Betejemin whose tale of ‘Miss Joan Hunter Dunn’ gave a joyous mirth to the event. Then a poem by Milton on the meaning of life, which gave everyone present food for thought. All were entertained by expert readings of famous and not so famous poems.

Somehow I acquired courage to stand up and read from the page in front of me.
Some words were not on the page, but at least I made some of those present laugh.  And they do say that sometimes, laughter is better than tears.

The evening was closed with a reading of Martin Luther Kings’ speech
‘I had a dream’. A fine ending to a fine evening.

A rabbit ran across the path and into the bushes followed by a a little girl laughing and giggling with delight and her mother timid, but amused. I was walking through the gardens of the local town hall and civic centre. The gardens were lush with greenery and flowers. I had seen rabbits in the early evening nibbling the grass on the wide expanse of the gardens, the flags outside the building blowing in the breeze and the noise of the traffic filling the air. I stood at the Pelican Crossing and waited for at least five minutes for the green man to flash. Buses passed, lorries stopped and started. Impatient motorists blew horns. The mother collected her child before she and the child got to the rabbit and they both proceed into the rent office arm in arm discussing the adventure.

On other occasions, I’d seen another mother proceeded by her brood in the same area. This time it was a duck with five duckling in pursuit, waddling from the pond beneath the council chamber up the few steps and into the low pond in the courtyard of the building. This was all done while seagulls circled above watching the family in anticipation of a good meal. Here in the very centre of the city an island of magical proportions. While the motor car and the traffic rule the lifestyle of everyone travelling about the area, these little creatures seem to live out their lives, breed and give pleasure to those who observe and the innocent who behold them.

At times I am afraid to mention the sightings for fear of gossip spreading and perhaps some cruel deed might be done. Yet the gentle sights of nature are something to behold and discuss. On other occasions the garden area is occupied by sun worshippers while on their lunch hour. The trees give shade, while the people eat. It is a useful place which seems to adapt to its occupants.

Perhaps like in a ‘Midsummers Dream’ there are lots more sights and sounds in this green space which surrounds the building whose main reason for being is civic life. Most people pass by and don’t seem to notice the rabbits and the ducks, the towering trees full of nests the butterflies and bees. At night the area is bathed in a purple-blue glow which sets the imagination alight. Could it be a magical castle, a green gem set in a silver sea, which defends and maintains life in many forms?

Watch the film

Another point to the BLDGBLOG, this time for their interest in the bioluminescent properties of dead herrings. They quote from the wonderful W G Sebald, too, who is a great inspirational writer for lots of us – so we thought we’d post the quote here as well. I wonder if, when it gets dark enough, people who write creatively…glow?

An idiosyncrasy peculiar to the herring is that, when dead, it begins to glow; this property, which resembles phosphorescence and is yet altogether different, peaks a few days after death and then ebbs away as the fish decays. For a long time no one could account for this glowing of the lifeless herring, and indeed I believe that it still remains unexplained. Around 1870, when projects for the total illumination of our cities were everywhere afoot, two English scientists with the apt names of Herrington and Lightbown investigated the unusual phenomenon in the hope that the luminous substance exuded by dead herrings would lead to a formula for an organic source of light that had the capacity to regenerate itself. The failure of this eccentric undertaking, as I read some time ago in a history of artificial light, constituted no more than a negligible setback in the relentless conquest of darkness.

Amazon.com: The wider culture tends to tell stories about architecture (like about everything, I guess) that are organized around the Great Creators: the Gehrys, the Wrights, the Pianos (the Howard Roarks). Your stories, by contrast, are much more impersonal–if there are any heroes they are as much the people who explore their environment–the Michael Cooks. Where do people fit into your designs?

Manaugh: Well, I don’t have that many designs as such–being a writer–but I think the everyday users of buildings are almost always more interesting than the actual creators of those spaces. For instance, what do janitors or security guards or novelists or even housewives–let alone prison guards or elevator-repair personnel–think about the buildings around them? What do suburban teenagers think about contemporary home design, when their own bedrooms are right next door to their parents–or what do teenagers think about urban planning, when they have to drive an hour each way to get to school? These sorts of apparently trivial experiences of the built environment are often far more important to hear about than simply learning–yet again–how a certain architect fits him- or herself into a self-chosen design lineage.

So perhaps we should stop talking to Frank Gehry and start interviewing valet parkers in Los Angeles–or crime novelists, or SWAT team captains. They all have an opinion about the built environment, and about the way that cities function, but no one tends to ask them what those opinion might be.