developmentgroup



	The Word Hoard Development Group: joy of the forest
	The Word Hoard Development Group is a changing group of writers all of whom have a long-term relationship with the co-operative and who work with The Word Hoard in various ways. We brought them all together for the first time in 2004 to collaborate on a writing and recording project which came to be called joy of the forest and which was completed in spring 2005. The writers involved in this first project were Matt Black, Celena Bretton, Anne Caldwell, Dianne Darby, Glynis Charlton, Anthony Cropper, Reg Czudek, Robert Furze, Keith Jafrate, Kath Jones, Mary Males, Eleanor Rees, Stuart Rushworth, Liz Tolan and Polly Williams. All have contributed to the texts below. The complete piece, with accompanying soundscape, has been released on CD and can be purchased from our shop images by Dianne Darby © copyright 2005 the word hoard

	Prologue The language is watching an attempt at the word blue: a pool before storm, an eye before dreaming. A midsummer night’s sky dense and articulate as ink. The language is watching the wetness of a mouth. The language is watching for what can’t be followed, that short-cut beside rough ivy, fading abruptly into countless shades of green. The language is watching you, stood curbside, bag over shoulder, perhaps it’s your birthday. You are already detached, out of focus. The language is watching from behind the mirror, and waiting for the right moment to pounce. Sometimes it forgets what it is doing and unravels shapelessly, hoping to insinuate itself into new mouths. The language is watching, biting its tongue. It wants tittle-tattle and huge landscapes. It wants action I, the language, looked for blue and caught this fury, my mouth stuffed with small fingers and feathers and river mud. The exact shade of desire settled on me like a butterfly, a veil, a blessing. It is only the reflection of the sea. I, the language, looked for blue and spoke from the mouth of eels. I found a dream hanging from a line like a delphinium. I found petals, pieces of glass, thread and ink, and made them home. I, the language, looked for blue, and saw the Prussian sort in a dress hanging in a wardrobe, its straps criss-crossing as it shifted in the breeze from an open window, so the colour shifted to black and silver and back to Prussian blue. The sea is waiting somewhere for the story’s end, unnavigated, undared, undreamed, breathing. It walks backwards and forwards, and backwards and forwards, hours from here, without thinking of anything. Soon, it will spread itself out like lace, ready to be seen over the brow of a hill, in a cove that can’t be reached by car. There are no signs. You hear and follow.

	Chapter 1 The sea is waiting somewhere. The station frames the sky, makes hills and houses small, clean in white light. A flood of feet like rice pouring. Pigeons glancing across black tunnel mouths in a flash of sun. Regular tapping in a small space . [child skip in sharp flip-flops - one clack] A woman with a large bag of oranges. One spills out and rolls across the floor as she leans over the counter. She looks towards the door which opens and the sun lights up the dusty room. She shuts her eyes and turns round, takes off her purple coat then sits down heavily. The chair breathes out. It will soon be time to meet her father. He’ll have trouble parking and be late but at least he’ll have money and she can buy a bacon sandwich. Its raining hard, the streets are empty and water is running in ropes down the pavement. “Lets go somewhere warm and cosy,” she says. “I’m starving.” There’s a blue door with the sign of a cup with steam rising. Inside the door are some steps going down. They’re dusty and it’s quiet except for the spattering of rain outside. How am I going to get dad down these stairs she thinks. He’ll never make it. But he does slowly, one by one, feeling the walls with one hand touching the peeling wallpaper flowers with his big old fingers. With the other hand, he’s holding the banister tightly. He’s in front and that’s wrong she thinks because if he falls, there’ll be nothing to stop him. If she’d gone first she could have cushioned his fall. Why did I buy all those oranges? Maybe I’ll go back upstairs and leave them at the top, but then someone could open the blue door and trip over and they’d be off again, cascading down the stairs like a comedy waterfall. “Open the door Dad” she says impatiently. She ordered soup for them both because it had coconut in and that was soothing. It put her in mind of holidays. She put the bag of oranges in their own chair. I have been walking in the rain and that’s why I look like this. I have been wondering why this station announcer sounds so posh I have been as well but at least you can understand what he’s saying. I’ve been trying to be more strange I have been strange all my life and now it’s time I started being more ordinary. I’m here to meet my father, what about you? I am seeing my boyfriend off. He’s going on holiday. I’m surprised you’re not going with him. I am too, but he wants to play golf all the time and that’s not a holiday as far as I’m concerned. I am in agreement with you there. opposite the jewellers and its green tasselled canopy a thin comes with thick eyes looking into everlasting gold speckled readiness, holding a white shopping-bag loosely around unseen onions, the hand tapping glass for another turns to look at them, says the wooden word chipped at by both of them all week, put into the window with the high rings and watches, intent and meticulous as this word is, made affordable to say A girl touching each with her reflection, each passerby in a pattern, dividing. Look at her eye catching an instant of bus bringing neighbour in its big mouth in a smooth way of musicals into her wave and face as the man carries the doorbell in its box which didn’t work last Saturday and never will unless they swap it. He becoming entire on the pavement while she and her friend step back become camouflaged in bustle and screaming like years are passing through and the old man stopped. A simple cloud each of them looks at eventually,and marks in the sky like a map of this dress she wears, too complicated for being immense and ordinary Woven into the man’s explanation of visitors who pressed the button again and again and nobody came to the door, about how its leaflet said it would behave, play Christmas carols at Christmas and assorted uncannily suitable tunes all year round. The jeweller’s window recording all this, like a billion cats’ uncaring, curling up all geological time in dead rock blinking at the light, the girl’s finger pressed to the exact place. A breeze on my skin, like a tiny creature crawling on my ankle. The organist’s shoes are worn at the bottom. Brown shoes, grey suit. The tremble along the seat as the organ gets louder. Cool air on the tops of my arms. She’s waiting for the kettle to boil. It’s hissing. White cups turned upside down on their saucers. This time next week. Holding the bouquet her mother helped her choose. She’s out in the garden most fine days, her mother. Messing with bedding plants, picking up stray crisp packets with knobbly orange gardening gloves. Her pale rose suit has been hanging on the back of the wardrobe door for weeks, covered in clingy warm plastic. It’ll be easy, like one of those things at the amusements where you drop a 2p into the slot and it pushes a whole load of others over the edge. When I was six I wouldn’t eat any vegetables, only baked beans. I had no idea you could feel this bad. I’m thinking about getting completely rat-arsed. If I could, I’d hug my mam and tell her I’m sorry. I’m thinking what a good cup of tea this is and feeling like my dad. I’m thinking I probably shouldn’t tell her. I’m thinking I probably should tell her He leans forward and tucks her hair behind her ear. A simple cloud each of them looks at eventually, and marks in the sky like a map of this dress she wears, too complicated for being immense and ordinary. Fathom light on water on stone. Drone deep where, opening green fathoms, the mill persists in stillness. Press, press your breath, sure breath, press breath less light less weight less breath: who can be trusted, travelling south on this slippery fabric? A white butterfly sewing silence on blue, a wasp spinning gold from grey gravel, two boys on bicycles tear the breath open, a surgery of chains: the men we can’t hear. Buttercup, caught throat up, turned to sunlight. Moons of dandelion, their blonde heads just above the water level, clinging on & underworld, grazing the current skin in this smooth element, arrives without resistance. What is about to happen? A man walking fast through the city, hidden in the everyday. No one is speaking except the girl in a plumage of sequins. Her mouth is full of blunder. Who has her heart now? And how much does it weigh? At last it rains. People looking at paperbacks like they’re searching lettuce for faults. Summer going above me like a rocket. Sleep falters, red ache, stone containment, blood shuttered blanked eye, light deadening. Wedding static, petals & tricky laughter trinkets, small change where the townspeople fumble with their delicate net of cheesewire. Feel a heart now, wet & beating, do not let it slip, take it quick, hurry along with the package, it’s new as a baby. When I was six I dreamed the sky kissed my nose while I lay in the grass. I have nothing to do and my head is open and full of space. This is as near to flying as can be. If I could I would become water, ease my way through the world without speech or thought or difficulty. My dress has become too dangerous and made an apparition of me. My story has broken. Each second a golden ticking number. He draws his breath in, blows smoke out, and coughs as though there were toads in his throat. When I was six I had a magic wand. I threw it away because it didn’t work. I knew that shoes only came in black. I helped with a stall and I put pies out in huge ways. What time does the chippy open? The shadows contain speckles of light. Random points of fine white. There’s a sound – a grating crease as the cloud smooths across the sky. Who hears it move? Who hears the rain approaching? Jump to sight of green distance, the blue cuts over dimensions of brick, angles into angles, triangle, gable, capstone, follicles on black on yellow sandstone. Open fold of the pigeon’s angelswoop, wings repeated shadow beating onto walls, wet black line of algae turns to wet black wet of water. I am thinking of shoals moving through me. I have been underwater. I have been running. I have been looking for edges. I have been shouting for you. I have been moving within you. I have been swimming through black water. I am your skin. I am an edge. You need this. A bell rings on the half-quarter. Cherry blossom on old grave stones. A man drinks cheap cider, blossom falling on his shoulders My father was a framed picture, a crackling voice down a telephone, ordering me to count to ten, in English.