How to Visualise Well

Photo by NEOSiAM 2021 on

Victoria wasn’t really looking out of the window when she saw the naked man in her back garden, she was looking at a reflection of it on the mirror she was using to apply mascara. Her eyes were focused on the tiny brush stroking languidly over her eyelashes and so she only got a quick flash of a well-built shape, just beyond the conifer at the bottom of her garden. He was watching her.

Of course, by the time she had turned away from the mirror to look directly into the garden, he was gone.

You’re hallucinating again, she told herself firmly and turned back to the mirror. With the unhurried strokes of a patient woman, she continued to darken her eyelashes.

Wishful thinking, Victoria. Get a grip.

Still, she wasn’t sure. Wishful thinking was one thing, but an actual naked man was a whole other kettle of boiling water. She let her mind run over the memory of his body. His outline had been pure Greek God, naturally. She wouldn’t want any other vision in her mind. And his skin had seemed to glow, whether with health or with the sun she wasn’t sure. Certainly it had been sunny enough lately for him to have picked up a tan if he’d been sunbathing, sprawled out on the patch of lush grass at the bottom of her garden, legs slightly akimbo, one hand shading his eyes and the other flung out carelessly towards the house as if in invita …

Victoria pulled the mascara brush away from her face and shook her head to clear the vision. Cool yourself, honeychile, she chided herself; it’s hot enough in this room without raising any more heat.

She stood and let her gaze sweep around. Four solid walls with a built in wardrobe, dressing table and bed. And then the other dimension: a panel window that looked out over the garden. Radiant flower-beds and lush greenery: life captured and suffused with dappled sunshine that played tag with the riotous colours of summer. A mad rush of paint on a genius’ canvas. A feast of sensory perfection. A pair of liquid brown eyes gazing at her from between the azaleas. Victoria swept her mascaraed eyelashes down. Nope, not going to go there.

She’d been having a little therapy. It was one of the conditions.

The counsellor, with his twinkling eyes and smooth voice had told her to move away from her self-imposed limitations; to let her mind sweep over possibilities; and to learn to trust in in her latent goodness. He was chock full of stuff like that. But still, she liked him enough to listen to the drone of his voice. She didn’t tell him everything. How could she? But she told him enough for him to smile benignly, nod and make little jottings in his notepad. Mostly harmless, she thought. Mostly.

Still, he’d given her clues. He’d directed her where to look in her childhood for the seeds of … whatever it was that now swirled around her mind like an invisible vine. She was aware that she still had the curiosity of a child inside the layers of skin that had somehow draped themselves over her delicate bones, pinning her down to earth; no more to fly. She kept her curiosity hidden now; inside a sealed casket within a locked box beneath the floorboards of a secret room.

But, like any child, she always wanted to know. What’s in there; who lives inside; where does he come from, what does he do; why that shape; how does it feel; and when, when, when will it be my turn? As a toddler she’d caught glimpses of her parents behind doors left carelessly open and the things she’d seen, but never understood were, back then, like strands of spider’s web tickling inside her forehead, but now they howled like haunted wolves in the spaces between her ears as she sat and nodded and smiled silently at the counsellor over tea and sweet biscuits.

The biscuits were nice, even if they were always gone too quickly.

Heck; is that the time already? Victoria slammed the shaft of the mascara brush into the little tube, screwed it shut and tossed it into her makeup bag. On with the show. Pausing only to grab her dressing-gown, wrap it around herself and belt it tightly, she headed for the door. Almost forgetting, she half-raised her hand to slap it against the closed door; ready to signal to the nurse in the corridor to open up, then remembering, she let her hand drop to the door knob. No more of that. Not now. Not ever if I can help myself. She gripped it and twisted. Pulled the door towards her. Opened it wider to let the light flood through. Slipped through the gap and stood on the threshold for a moment, taking in the scent of freedom, the sensation of being without bounds, the delicious experience of living a life without locks. Then she headed towards her kitchen, and breakfast.

Freedom Lies in the Heart

She just stood there in the lane, listening to the sound of freedom: the truck idling, seemingly impatient; waiting for her. She wanted to go; needed to get the hell out of the hell this country had become, but she couldn’t. Not now. Not even for something as right as a life of happiness in ‘the west’ where all dreams come true and there are pillows as soft as her grandmother’s hair.

She looked up at her husband in the passenger seat of the truck, framed by the open door. One last look at his face: the golden-brown colour of his eyes the same as she’d fallen in love with all those years ago; with the same pleading shine she’d seen when he’d asked her to marry him; the same depth of love she’d rejoiced in when she’d said ‘yes’ despite her parent’s wishes; and the same clear presence she felt now, begging her with all the depth of his soul to come, come now and leave this place before the soldiers arrived. But she couldn’t.

She turned away quickly, but not fast enough to escape the sight of his heart breaking and his soul being expelled from heaven. As she walked inside the house, shoulders back despite feeling the weight of the sins of all her people, she heard the truck door slam and the grinding of the gears. The engine revved as she closed the door behind her. Tyres crunched on the road as she walked across the room towards the bed, her shoulders now slumped.

She smoothed the twisted sheets and sat down, trying not to disturb her daughter as she moved fitfully in her sleep; too ill to be moved, too sick to look after herself. She’d recover, given time; but only with the kind of care and love that a mother couldn’t help giving; no matter what the price.

As she sat, perched on the edge of the bed, she sent all her love into the bright intelligence that she knew lay behind her daughter’s closed eyes. Yet still, she couldn’t stop the tears falling from her eyes as she began to weep silently for loss and pain: a nation, a dream, a marriage, a love, a …

The door opened behind her and she heard the sound of boots moving across the floor; heading towards her. She sent a fervent prayer and then turned and looked up into a familiar pair of golden-brown eyes. Then she wept anew; but, this time, not for pain.


I want to talk to you about growth.

When I was young I wanted to grow up. I wanted to be older and wiser and richer and more mature. Now that I’m older and wiser and richer and more mature I want a whole set of other things. Wanting never stops.

When I get all the things I want now and I sit down and look back I hope I am satisfied. I hope that I’ll have found an end to want. In other words, I hope I’ll have grown up.

Real growing up is nothing to do with height, age or even maturity. It’s about recognising the truth about things. And the truth is that we’re adrift in a world of endless possibility. We can be any one (or more) of a vast number of things. And we have choices. From here and now I can pick a direction and walk towards it. And it doesn’t have to be anywhere I was before. I’m not stuck. The world is open to me. I can move.

That’s all I need to say for now. Hope it makes sense and I hope it helps to release you from feeling tied to a situation you don’t like right now. Make wise choices. Be happy.

Your Freedom

Self-seeded plant.

This little fellah is growing wild at the end of our road. He didn’t ask for permission, apply for a permit, or apologise for his entry into the world. He just sat down, slapped out some roots and grew towards the sun.

We’re all as free as any wild plant to make the choice and take the chance to belong wherever we want to. The world is your bowl of cherries and …

Ah, who am I trying to kid. You’re welcome to come over for dinner but I’m afraid that you’re not stopping the night. Englishman’s castle and all of that. Soz.

Freedom Flight

No-one in the house when I arrive home. She left last week. A silent evening to look forward to. Dinner and a movie. Maybe a little writing. And then to bed alone.

I put the book down without marking the page. It’s not interesting. I switch on the light and take off my boots. I’m tempted to leave them on the mat; because who’s going to trip over them? Only me. But I put them in the cupboard all the same and grab my slippers in the same movement.

I walk to the sink and then I hear it. A faint buzzing. I look up and see it. A fly. It’s trying to find a way through the windowpane to the freedom of the back garden.

“Hey, hey; sorry about that. You’ll not be able to get through the glass. Let me help you. Stay calm now.”

The fly makes one last attempt and then sits on the bottom of window frame looking outwards. Taking care not to startle him with sudden movements, I undo the bottom catch.

“It’s going to be a little cold out there, but you’ll be alright. There are other flies out there; I’ve seen them. Perhaps you can mate.”

I release the top catch and push the window open.

“And there’ll be food out there. It’ll be better. There’s nothing in here for you.”

I open the window fully and the fly sits there, taking in the scents and sounds of the outside.

He’s in no hurry now. He cleans his legs and then preens his wings a little; all the while watching the garden; scanning the bounds of his freedom.

“There you go. This is all for you.”

He takes one last look; gathers his legs and then leaps into the air. His wings open and he flies; just like flies tend to do. It’s in their name and their nature. Freedom.

“Take care now. Enjoy yourself.”

I close the window.

The Edges

There’s a clearing in the woods
Where I live
Blue clouds, white sky, birds, mice.

There are trees in the wood
Wood in the trees
Twist this, turn that, snag, vice.

There’s an end to the wood
Breeze roams free
Can’t go, tears flow, parry, dice.

Talking in Comments

You have started talking to each other in the comments on my posts.


Please do it more! 🙂

Please do it all the time with reckless abandon and complete freedom.

Please – y’all love each other and get on like a true family should be – loving, supporting and embracing each other.

Very happy. 😀


‘Venturous Deeds

I shall sleep ’til the ending of time,
And on ‘venturous deeds will I dine,
Then return to my slumbering form,
Having memories none of my roam.

… which was reworked from a comment I made:
I will sleep ’til the end of time, and then come back to the beginning again, at which point I will wake up with no memory of my journey.

… on this post:

… which then (possibly (maybe)) influenced this wonderful prose:

… that caused me to make this comment:
“Hold on – I’m sure you nicked that idea from me! 🙂

… and caused this post to be written:

… which prompted me to go back and rework my comment into this post.

Isn’t life wonderful!! 😀

Someday Bloody Someday

Some days
I feel like a territory
A property in a portfolio
A something to defend at all costs.

Some days
Beasts roar with wild rage
Blood spurts across my face
Fights break out in the hallway.

Some days
I’m wrapped in bandages
To keep the sun from my eyes
And I’m fed oranges from far away.

Some day
I’ll look back and I’ll laugh
And I’ll count all my stars as lucky
I see them now – through the bars.

The Myth of Gravity


i won’t let you
drag me down
because you’re
not the boss of
me or any part
of me and the
feelings I share
are not beneath
your thumb nor
is my life in your
hands any longer
because I am power
and have a purpose and
will break free so that you
you will not be able to catch any
any part of me again and hold it in your