So i'm basically just trying to gather memories of when i have heard the bell, and it's prominence to me and my memories. This piece here is basically a rattling off of memories that are to do with the Bell. I tried to do it as childlike as i could, flitting from certain bits to others, getting lost in a train of thought. I have not yet re-read over what i have written, so it may all be rubbish - but i needed somewhere to put it.
We sit beneath the thorns and leaves collecting only the sweetest of blackberries. The taste, sharp and cutting in, but we do not pause our eating.
We sit beneath the thorns and leaves collecting only the sweetest of blackberries. The taste, sharp and cutting in, but we do not pause our eating.
Staining our lips in the process. Some entwined with cobwebs, but these are brushed aside and the berry is made edible. The ewe tree is close and I know of its poisonous nature but this does not stop me eating the berries that have been touched with the fallen leaves. My skin is easily punctured by the thorns, and I am quick to squeeze and see how much blood comes from the root. There is a warm haze over the garden as you hear the church bells echo in the distance. Now is time not to be awake but sleep. My body will not fall. I reside to holding my breath in an attempt to sleep as I need my heart to sleep. This is the way we sleep right? Our heart stops? It is as simple as turning the telly off. I just need my body to turn off so sleep can happen. And I’m lying on the ground. The warm grass brushes past my skin as I settle my breathing into a steady rhythm. I outstretch my fingers into the rubbery green blades. The sky is blue and there are moving clouds. I am lay besides the church. The building is old but it is strong. Like my dad. My eyes follow the patchwork of crumbling sand all the way to the spire. Lightening hit the weather gauge once and it has been wonky ever since. I become lost in the foreground and background of the sky and spire. They blend into mutual space. The clouds whirl past and I am struck with a sense of movement. The church is moving. I am moving. I am being pulled, dragged across the floor. Being lifted up and moved. My eyes are telling my body the wrong thing. It is the clouds that move, not me. Not the building. But I am aware of the world spinning and me no longer lying still in the church yard. But I let my eyes deceive me as there is gentle enjoyment found in this. I can here children playing in the background. I am off school today as I have been unwell. I sway in the hammock, too tired to move, wishing to be playing. The bells tell me it’s lunch time. My body wont let me eat food today. I go in search of the green little furry berry. I find it and bite into it. Its sour taste will heal me and kill all the bugs inside my body. The greener, the stronger crunch and sourer taste. These will do the most healing. But I do collect some with a pinkish colour as these ones are a little sweeter. And inside the flesh of the fruit is like frogspawn. The gooseberry is my favourite of berries nans garden. And the bell rings loudly even though it is a normal day. Dad needs to do some work in the church and I join him for the journey. And there is a drain that travels around the church and it is fun to walk in it and follow it around. It fills with leaves in autumn but has moss in it at the minute and hidden pinecones. A few are surveyed and collected. And I keep walking around and dad is stood talking to an old woman. Her brown clothes drown her. She has a scarf round her head to keep her ears warm. They are laughing. I recognise her. Her face is very wrinkly, and in those wrinkles are dirt. And dirt under her nails. But she has pink lipstick on. Nan doesn’t wear lipstick like her. I don’t know why miss Phyphs wears lipstick. It gets on her teeth. Dad told me she has a well down her garden and this is where she gets her water from to drink and wash. She doesn’t smell. We are searching for water down our garden to see if we have a well. We look near the rose bushes. This is where my two guinnie pigs were buried. I didn’t see them when they died. And I wasn’t allowed to watch them be buried. I saw mum cry and dad walk up the garden with a shovel as I peered from behind the curtain. And everyone is wearing black in the church. I am too. And I know everyone here. There is my granddads coffin at the front, wooden. I am interested to see my family cry. Who will be the first. And we sing gather at the river and this is put on the gravestone. But I am told I am to stay inside the church when the vicar and my parents go outside. But I get to process down the isle. I am a grown up. I get told I was very good today. I smile and think that is because I walked nicely, but I just want to have a cup of juice and play. I think it is twelve o’clock as the church bell keeps ringing but it goes past twelve and continues. And I am dancing on the village green around the maypole, and it has just gone four. But I am in a lovely dress as I am a may attendant and I am worried about max standing on my dress. The bell ringers come on a Wednesday to practice for Sunday. Which makes sense, as it is halfway through the week. But now I am searching the garden. I lean over the pond. The concrete to the surrounding edges acting as a barrier gently grazes and imbeds itself within my knees. I am too preoccupied for this to bother me. My face is reflected in the murky brown water. It is not possible to see the bottom. Lift move drop. Now is the time for searching under Lillie pads. There are rumours that newts have been found here. One by one, each slimy rubbery leaf is removed. There must be precision to this game. They are quick runners. As the search continues and the shapes of stones are fully dented into my knees, something I wasn’t expecting is found. It lies upturned. The gold scales seem to be splitting apart by a white green line. It floats the wrong way. I know it isn’t sleeping as I have found fish like this before. It’s dead. Here is true excitement. Something much more worth while in my time than finding newts. The race is now on to go find mum and dad to tell them. I don’t know why it is a race. But I find myself running. I need to tell them. I jump from the garden down to the path. Not even stopping to congratulate how well I did jumping from that height. I have no time to stop. Im now running down the side of the house. And Normally time is again taken here. Because when you outstretch both of your hands, the one runs alongside the brickwork bouncing over patterned lumps. And the other hand gently glides over the wooden splinters that make up a fence panel. This one needs to be done more carefully because you don’t want a splinter but you do still need to touch the panel. But im running with my hands in movement and time to my legs. And finally I’m in the house and tell mum and dad that a fish has died. But then it’s over. All the excitement, fear and need has gone. What felt like a lifetime between finding the animal and reaching the house has gone. The time is up and settles back into its natural rhythm, beat. Death is a sped up accumulation of everything happening at once, but once it is dealt with. Accepted. Told. It is over, and time regains itself and the upperhand. She is no longer free to get lost in her own thoughts. Time..is always susceptible to human interpretation. And though time is partly a human fabrication, it is also that from which no parent or child is immune.