When I was a young, I saw a giant slug, it slid along the external window ledge then jumped off. We lived in a remote Pennine village, the last one before the moors. I did see small snakes more than once, they lived locally, long slightly shiny worms, that delighted. I now realise they were slow worm.
I loved the field mice, frogs and toads too, but I think this snail was imagined, along with the other mummy. She was my mum, but exaggerated. A tall woman who, when standing, was big enough to see inside the upstairs windows. She was too big to get in, but she’d stared angrily in, before squeezing her arms inside and trapping me in a corner. The she would press down her giant thumbs and try to spatter me. It would go on for a while. It felt an age. I’d have to jump and wiggle to make sure she missed. I wake up hot and shouting, kicking my bedding about.
At times the fear of female power continues. I get angry with women, from the time-wasting mother figures, to the authority types. Yet, I’m both of those women, plus another voice, a crazy, unmanageable girl, one we both love to hate. Together we try to work things out. We get entangled in friendships. We fail inappropriate lovers – then the typing comes. These new skills enable me to utterly demean myself. Maybe I should continue killing my compulsive fantasies through paint. Writing life out has been grounding, freeing and uplifting, but it leaves dark marks.
The other mummy’s gone, she vanished long ago. I’ve not seen a glow worm for years either. In my dreams the slug slides off the end of the window and takes flight. Recently a beautiful turquoise bird skimmed my head, then vanished into the hedgerows, over the river. My thoughts deposit these dark paths of words. On my walks I often see wild dear and long for the kingfisher’s return.
Leave a Thoughtful Comment
Read 0 comments and reply