When we love the passion is at white heat, carries all before it, but only for a moment'. . .

‘When we love the passion is at white heat, carries all before it, but only for a moment, and afterwards you become more conscious . . .’ (Marie Bashkirtseff, diarist, artist, self-promoter, self-maker).

                                     A Passionate Sketch

Dorothy is an alter-ego, she is me and not me, more not-me than me. In fact, the more she becomes herself the less she is about me. I am borrowing. We all borrow. At school I learned how to borrow from the next column while doing subtraction. I liked the idea of borrowing, moving right, just one line over. One column, where there were always more numbers to be found, and sometimes a 1, which when you took it away left nothing at all. Zero. I always felt that was wrong. You should never leave a place with nothing. Leave something, a sock, a hat, a pair of gloves, a dusty old slipper or shoe, your beach shoes. A canvas bag wrapped tight like a snail holding grains of sand. The tang of salt, a window still open a crack, a rusty hinge falling slightly adroit, because the next visitor will need something to borrow from their neighbour to make an impression. ‘Do you remember that woman who came round looking for a hammer? Odd don’t you think?’ That was me.  A hammer, a set of nails, an oil can to stop the squeak in the hinge on the door you left open a jar to let the air in as you stood on the doorstep tilting back and forth wondering what it might feel like to feel passion again.  

Dorothy wondered what it might be like to feel passion. To be passionate. These things tended only to happen on holiday. Perhaps she should arrange one. But holidays unsettled one; there were so many variables. Novelty was overrated; all those new names you were bound to mispronounce. Directions given then lost. People you waved at you never saw again. Life stories you heard and then clean forgot whilst you spent day after day looking for the road towards the sea, even though it should be quite obvious, but the road kept moving. You were sure it did. South, go south of here, the sea is always south: down the twitten, through the trees, across the green. Isn’t that how you remember it? The sea all laid out, you had to take it in one go, only the locals know the best ways, through the soft dunes.

Dorothy decided she would go down to the sea. It had been a long time since she had felt the sickness of a sea-crossing. Herself bonny and bouncing, sailing away. Her body laid out in the sand, a narrowboat full of prickly heat. Mahogany, two hard bodies with polished skin, and the sun glistening and glistening. Two wills jousting to win over heaven. The sky above as she turned to face him. Long green lashes of grass caught between her toes. Blood racing, her heart expanding to meet him -- she screamed, and it was a small scream, but it was heavenly. She covered her mouth, but his hand was already there. Sea doves soft and pale, their beaks fluttering, biting gently. Afterwards, the sea was blue and grey, smooth slate, serene.

‘Heavenly,’ said Dorothy to the lady next door. ‘Just heavenly.’

                                                (For Anna)

From POND LIFE: NOVEL FORMS OF LIVING