There is a plant known as the Bristol Whitebeam. This delicate flower grows on the verges of the Avon Gorge, and within hidden corners of Leigh Woods. These are the only two locations in the whole world where this plant grows.
We must be beyond coincidence.
As per my introduction last week, this is one of my favourite exercises of the year. You might think staring at your cards is the point when the dozen tasks reach pointless pretentiousness. But the idea is to pull focus on a creation. To sit with your mind like a glass bottom boat above your unconscious, and allow a glimpse at something hidden.
My idea emerged fully formed. I had the first draft on paper in fifteen minutes, and the edit was less than a few shavings from a marble statue. You can read the story next week. I never planned a connection to the cards, but similarities thread them together.
The quartet lay on my desk. With no particular time limit set on the task I left them out. Allowed their presence to add extra flavour to my work overnight. A glimmer of the moon shined through the window. Someone used up the last of their fireworks, and a tangy chemical smell snuck through the crack around the glass.
Sleep that night appeared in a slow fade. I kept thinking about the cracked grey cliffs around the Suspension Bridge. All those layers revealing the history of millions of years. If you stayed here long enough, would primeval beasts with scales and gills stamp their rubbery through Birdcage Walk? With enough practice, could you twist between cavemen and bearded hippies like different stations on a radio?
I fell into a dream of Clifton at night. The stars were torches above a scene of dark terraced houses, no obvious sign of inhabitants inside. Ropes wrapped around the building like the ribbon on presents, ready to tear down. A few others walked the streets, but stuck to the shadows, little more than oily marks on the wall.
When I awoke the air pressure in my bedroom was an insane binding force that pinned me under the duvet. A diamond shape danced on the wall opposite, the outline waving and wobbling in chalky primary colours like the line. Trees filled the gap in the center, a full skeletal woods at night. The scene was familiar and photorealistic. Walks in Leigh Woods with dogs long dead If my arms were free I could snap off a twing. In the end I closed my eyes.
My cards were flat in the light of the new day. The walls displayed nothing but magnolia paint, and my overfilled cork board.
Five weeks to go. Have to plan Christmas. Have to plan the next stage of my journey.
