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Wednesday 30 November 2011

Notes From A Dogwalk IV

Today I have made it to the top of the smallest of the three hills that encircle my forest meandering. Now I can see.

I can see the dotted sheep on the hillside opposite; the start of the rising waves of hills to the Northwest that lead into the Balkan Mountains. I can see a flat chequered plain to the East; scattered blocks of vines, neatly aligned, curving round the feet of these gentle rises of earth. I can hear a train and I know that in the next valley runs the main line across the centre of the country; from Sofia to Varna, Serbia to the Black Sea.

The sunshine comes slowly towards me; trailing tips over each ripple of land and fuzz of treetops. One dog has a tree to chew on; the other is happy to push his nose into the wind and simply breathe.

Sunday 27 November 2011

Notes From A Dogwalk III

Sweet dreaming on a hillside, chewing sticks, rolling on grit and scrubby grass. Dogs bark in the distance and my village is laid out in front of me. No apparent road here; just a rise to hills and the village squatting inbetween. Small red roofs nestling in an expanse of trees.

In Spain I felt the essence, the richness of life, alive and present in the landscape. Bulgaria is dour in comparison, struggling. I have seen no vitality here. The land is not brimming, exuberant with energy.

The first rain comes, misty, drifting against my face. Tiny drops that don't know they're there.

Thursday 24 November 2011

Notes From A Dogwalk II

The orange shines from the leaves today as afternoon sun illuminates the treetops. The stalky stems and sticks of these undergrown trees stretch from sight in all directions. They are tight together, intermingling, grasping branches at malicious eye height. Bundles of frantic twigs emerge from the ground; the next generation biting at my ankles.

My stomach hurts; frozen cramp across the surface, muscles in tension, pulsing and contracting in shifting combinations. Underused muscles shriek in complaint and my body rolls in response to the dog lead pulling me, jerking.

Sunday 20 November 2011

Notes From A Dogwalk I

Tinkling goatbells warn of dog danger in the distance. I must veer left, avoid the encounter. Excitable dogs start fights. The carpet of yellow, orange, brown leaves. Shocking green seedlings poke through it; thousands of new lives shortly to fall by the wayside. The struggle for supremacy starts with just two rounded leaf dots. The trees are gnarly and twisted; nibbled by goats, they shoot prickles of new growth from their unduly shortened limbs. There is peace here but only in emptiness. I know it's Autumn, the time of decay, but I don't feel life in this forest. The sky is grey today and maybe I am too. Dogs interrupt. Streaks of running animals in the distance send mine pounding down the hillside to intercept. No fights but I must move on. Bells sound from two directions; one goats, one sheep. I must move on.

Friday 18 November 2011

The earth will kill you if you try to kill it. Your body heals you if you discipline it.

Space, space, time and a place. My self expression is rusty; my method full of holes.

How do you catch a thought cloud?

My profound views on the workings of the universe gather in wisps; shaped by events and my mental landscape, rising slopes of sunny days and dark valleys of snide remarks. A perfect view floats above me; my thoughts, coalesced, condensed; then it sails away, serene, uncaught.

Friday 11 November 2011

So, if you're ever in Bulgaria

and you get an urge for a tattoo....here's where you should go.

Go to Varna and find Shorty's Tattoo Studio.

It's a name on a buzzer down a leafy side street. Then a walk up a grimy staircase, I wasn't sure what I'd find at the top. But I found Plamen; he's friendly, really easy to talk to and, most importantly, he took time with me to sit for an hour and make a design together. He's so nice I even bought him coffee and banitsa the second time I went (but then he wasn't in so I drank it while I was waiting). Anyway.



My best tattoo experience so far.

http://shortystattoosvarna.blogspot.com/

Sunday 6 November 2011

Kitten fur and hope

Back lying, bored, basically. Not sure what to do., it’s just so comfortable here. Easy to dream the day away.. Cats tucked under chin, pushing my lips into soft sweet smelling fur. I am their mum, their caregiver, they lick my face and come to me for comfort. Five feeds a day, sleeping in my bed. Running around, frantic when I walk into the caravan. Come back here little one, calm down, I’m here again and I won’t go away for a while. Come and sleep little one, smell my breath and vibrate with purring. It’s addictive. The caravan is warm and soft, everything padded, cosy, cocooning. My wool lined retreat. Dogs howl in the distance.

And I’m sad somehow. And maybe it’s because I’m spending too much time looking at shit websites (www.lamebook.com?)...the scum that rises to the top of the internet. Distilled essence of the worst of lazy Western humanity.

Or maybe it’s that I’ve lost my traveling mojo. I’m not in cities any more, the heady whirl of life. I’m in the country now. Flat, brown fields. Corn chopped for winter feed. Trudge down one straight yellow road to a copse of struggling trees. Go back home to neighbours I can’t speak to and solitude.

I had the chance to live in a city; small, cheap, cold apartment but in the centre of a nice Bulgarian city. Sitting in cafes, drinking cheap coffee, watching the worn people and the stray dogs. Upstairs from a tattoo parlour. But it cost money you see and I don’t have enough to pay rent. So I came here for free; a cracked and empty tiny house in a cracked and empty village. The shop doesn’t sell vegetables; everyone grows their own. There’s a mosque here and no church. Goats are driven, turkeys forage and tractors rumble past my window. I arrived too late, there’s no garden so I’ve only been able to make rosehip syrup and quince jelly. My bourgeois winter provisions. My house is empty, I sleep on the floor. I made lampshades from twigs and tissue paper to cover the screeching bare lightbulbs. There are holes in the windows and cracks in the walls.

Or maybe it’s the come down from summer. I kayaked almost 3000 kilometres in 7 countries. I fell in love and out again. I was homeless on a boat. I did very stupid things and paid appropriate prices; exile and infamy. How strange that this is who I am; I never thought I would do those things. Great stories for future tall tales but at the time it was shit.

Maybe I can’t find the start. The tail of the knotted ball of story. So I ignore it and look at ecowhore or clickclackgorilla. The glowing lights of other peoples lives further push mine into memory’s darkness.

It’s a fitful storm lamp, my story, red chipped paint and delicate yellow glass. A curled wire lever raises the shade to light it and it throws a small comforting glow just a short little distance. The problem is, it runs on lamp oil you see; and that’s difficult to find in rural Bulgaria.