annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary

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Busy busy

Big day, good things:

Thursday writing group - she asked us to think of something that happened when we were very young that we weren't aware of at the time and to write about how we did know about it. I chose the death of my mother and wrote about it OK. Then to write about it some other way, then to imagine we were someone on the edge of the event and to write it from their viewpoint. That was when I suddenly became overwhelmed with emotion and decided to not do it. I said, "I can't do this - it's too raw. I can't just write it for an exercise in a class like this." OK, she said, describe a photo you took recently in as much detail as you can. So I did that, then she called a break and when we came back she'd devised another exercise in coming at one fictional scene from different angles, which probably didn't work as well as the other might have done, because it was less impactful, but was OK and I really appreciated her changing it and was proud of myself for speaking up.
I went for a swim in the harbour with Daughter. Not as dangerous as that sounds, in fact the safest place round here as the water is almost enclosed - there's a narrow entrance where the boats and ships go and the big waves stay right out of the harbour. It's the first time I've swum there, though it's right by the coast road and every time I went past last winter when the tide was in, there were people swimming. (Of course I have swum there before, with Sam, but that's for another day.) It was shockingly cold for a moment or two, then OK and absolutely flat. I feel as if I could manage swimming there regularly better than the beach where the group goes, but it's all about tide times as it goes right down to nothing at low tide. 
Picked up my sister this evening then went to Brighton, first to a private view of a photography show my pal A put together with clients from the Recovery Centre that I loved and can't go to any more. My favourite recovery worker of them all, C, came rushing over and hugged me really tight. Did you get my painting? I asked - I'd done a picture of a sewing machine for her as she's a big needlewoman, and wrote a letter thanking her in detail for all the different ways I'd felt supported by her. Yes, she said and then looked aghast - didn't you get my letter and the bag? NO! I didn't, I never heard another word! Oh I can't tell you how much it meant to hear that she hadn't just not bothered to get in touch. Fabulous. I hope she will get in touch but even if she doesn't, I feel better about it.
James Taylor. Live. Very nice. We only made it for the first half as Sis gets up at 5 to see to her horses so by 8.30 she'd had enough. We'd heard Sweet Baby James and the one from Mud Slide Slim where they'd lifted Joni Mitchell's harmonies from the original recording and played along to them, so we were OK. He's very amiable but the trouble with this sort of folky music is it doesn't build any momentum. That was a nice, amiable song and now it's over and here's another one, pretty similar. On the way home we realised that when we'd been into him (Sis mostly, I was more Cat Stevens then), it was the early 70s, or fifty fucking years ago. James Taylor has been carrying on, making an album every few years in all that time, but we don't know any of them. He could have sung Fire and Rain, but that would have made me cry more than Sweet Baby James did, so no harm done

1:11 a.m. - 14.10.22

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