Wednesday, November 28, 2007


This morning the wind up high was carding the clouds, pulling them down in feathers, and the sun painted the early morning cloud with yellow light. Over St Davids Head a rainbow hung, bright and painted.
She is gone now. She packed a bag or two and bustled around and stroked heads and then left and the dogs howled.
And She has taken the camera with Her.
And now Gayle has come to stay, and we will tell her that we need more food, that we are always allowed to sleep on the bed, that we have to walk for at least two hours a day, that fresh fish is best but frozen will do, and if she is good we will catch her a mouse and let her sleep in the bed too.
And we will wait for Her to come home.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Looking at the moon.

The moon rides in the sky in the daytime and nighttime now. At night the light over all is silver. As the dark gives way to the light the bright bone white of the moon fades to a translucent disc in the clear blue, a paler shade of white.

So far away. The sunlight hides us from the universe, the moonlight lets us see the distant stars, the miracle of space. We stand in the garden at night, look up at the stars and glory in our own small insignificance in the universe. Moon cat, star cat.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Full moon, restless spirit, unquiet dreams.

The week has been busy, many mice, days passing in painting and walking. New cups arrived and when She leaves them dotted around the house after cups of tea they look like art and not dirty washing up.
The moon has swelled to fullness and tonight the sky has a cover of cloud that smooths the moon shadows. At moments when she shines through all is bathed in the marvelous light of silver and only ginger cats glow red with colour in an otherwise monochrome world.
We know that She is going away. There is a restlessness in the house and we have filled Her head with unquiet dreams. She should not go away, we need Her here to smooth and stroke and feed and purr to us, to make the fire that is so warm, that glows so red, where dragons sleep, and we need to care for Her as only we can. She has been tired, so we have blanketed Her in the mornings with our purring ginger fur. But unquiet dreams do not persuade Her to stay.
And there have been other things happening too. Painting have come in and been stored away in the house all wrapped in bubbles. And prints too, new pictures in colours that shine. All is busy and bustle.
She will go away. But She will be back, and all will be well.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Too Early

It is early , dark night still holds sway. Outside the rain falls heavy from a still dark sky. Max has returned home covered in the water-beads.
The fire sleeps, covered in a blanket of ashes and needs to be stirred to life. She is awake, troubled by restless dragons. Winter creeps ever closer with its promise of snow.

Sunday, November 18, 2007

To walk in the rain

Last night the clouds attacked the house, threw spears of rain and stones at the roof. This morning the world was washed clean and gentle rain was falling when we walked.

Between the high walls of the ancient path that leads to the top of the hill everything shone with a green glow. Beads of light were held trapped in water berries on the purple branches of the sharp blackthorn, and dripping from the russet heather. Small worlds of water.

On the top of the hill, although it was a light rain falling, the weight of water kept the birds huddled and sheltering in bushes. Last night we feared for these small and fragile creatures, outside in the cold and the fierce storm. We would have asked them to come in for shelter. But they would not have come.

Walking back our fur was pulled to sharp points by the rain. On top of the hill the bracken seemed purple. The heather has lost all its colour.
Home in the warm the fire was welcome and we curled around each other, good to walk in the rain, better to be home again.

Saturday, November 17, 2007

The Achievement of the Cat

All day the wind has been rising, and now, in the dark, it rips the clouds from the sky and dashes them to the ground, fierce spears of rain. It pushes its paws through the cat flap, through the smallest spaces around the windows, under doors and tries to steal our fire. We can hear its footfall as it washes over the roof, wave upon wave of rain. We can feel the house shake to its roots. But we are warm, curled ammonite tight in our cat dreams by the golden glow of firelight.
She read us a story. The Achievement of the Cat. Among other things it says
" It is, indeed, no small triumph to have combined the untrammelled liberty of primeval savagery with the luxury which only a highly developed civilization can command; to be lapped in the soft stuffs that commerce has gathered from the far ends of the world, to bask in the warmth that labour and industry have dragged from the bowels of the earth; to banquet on the dainties that wealth has bespoken for its table, and withal to be a free son of nature, a mighty hunter, a spiller of life-blood. This is the victory of the cat."

Friday, November 16, 2007

Even after...

..all the lifetimes we have lived, each of us through our nine lives, that stretch from the ancient days of Egypt until now, even until now, we still marvel each night when we walk out from the house and into the night.
We marvel at the night sky, at the river of stars that runs across dividing one side from another. We marvel at the endless infinity of lights, at the calm and quiet that comes again and again after a storm, and most of all we marvel at our own small and radiant insignificance in the depth of the wide multiverse.

Wild Pixie and the Ginger Cows

Some days are made for walking and this is one. Pearl light from the early morning sun bleaching out the distant landscape and bringing close up into focus with bright colour. The air is still and the distant cathedral bell calls across the valley. Closer the dry feathers of small birds rattle in the autumn air and smaller bell tones of light, bright linnets and blackbird song complete the symphony of this morning song.
Walking up the hill we find an anvil stone where yellow beaked blackbirds and speckled thrush break the fragile shell of unlucky snails to pluck out the meat.

And on the side of the hill in the autumn rusted bracken we find that the longhorns are back, medieval beasts with curving horns and thick coats of such beautiful colour.

Some days are good.

Do you recognize this cat?

We were sent pictures of a ginger cat engaged in the feline practice of luxuriating in clean laundry. Well done that cat! Should anyone recognize him or her, keep the secret, find your own clean laundry and let it all hang out!

This night

The stars are smurred tonight. It is cold and the moon has set already. The sea whispers in the distance. The lighthouse sweeps the sky and moisture hangs high in the sky blurring the light from the lamps of the stars.
Each night when we walk now there are badgers or foxes prowling the paths of the village.
The house is warm and safe. Outside is cold and wild and crystal. One star fell from the sky and hung in the tree. Make a wish......

Thursday, November 15, 2007

What kind of creature is this!

With many legs but no head!

Where we live

Where we live now there are a cluster of cottages on the side of a hill. On three sides there is sea, and when the storms come you can hear the waves break on the wide beach. You can smell the salt sea. The air is clear and clean and fresh.
Our cottage is small and tatty and held together by the webs of spiders. The garden is wild and full of bright birds. The house is warm. At night lights shine from the windows, and you can hear music and sometimes laughter. Smoke rises from the chimney and when the door is open there is a smell of cooking.
At one time over 100 people lived here with their cats, children, dogs and horses. There were two chapels and even a school house. The cottages were small and poor and farm workers kept the fires burning.
There was a well where the women would meet to talk and draw water and exchange news.

Now the well is dry. Some of the houses have people living in them, but more than half have no one. No lights at night. The windows stare out blindly on the world. No smoke from the chimneys, no voices of children, no cats or dogs. They stand like cold empty shells devoid of all life other than the odd scuttle of mouse. We think it is sad. They would make good homes for more cats.

And there are ruins that once were cottages, small and low, one roomed and full of life. Now they have ivy for walls and the sky for a roof. This is where the ghost cats sing.
Tonight the sharp claw moon rides again in a clear sky. All is stillness outside, except for the flutter of late bats who should be at their winter sleep. Not even a sound from the calm sea.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Elmo's Fire

Tom's birthday and the house in the morning had wonderful paper from presents to play with. Later it filled up with people, so many that we could not walk across the floor, and dogs too, Larry and Weasel, the small one and Pitta, the black one.
I do not like too many people in the house so I went outside. Here Tom and his friend Jake had a fire in the garden. I watched from the dark distance as the flames danced in the dark.
There were patterned cats and dancers and dragon's breath and monsters, mermaids and firebirds and firewolves and tiger's eyes, faces and firehorses and faeries and imps all dancing in the ginger flames in the darkness. So warm, sparks flying, mesmeric, beguiling.
Then all the people spilled out and began to move around with strange sticks with sparks, drawing patterns in the night, and then, and then, the world began to crack and bang and the sky filled with light and I ran, round the back of the house and away from the sky monsters and their noise and the hair stood up on my tail and back, and all the gingers ran from the house.
It did not last long. One great flower of fire filled the sky and faded down then all was silent again, but for the odd call of a bat, and the mice rustling in the hedges, an owl across on the common, a rat squeak by the well. The others went back into the house and they all settled by the fire, a tangle of people and dogs and cats. But I would not go. I stayed out in the night, high on the wall of the ruined house and watched the world turn and the stars move in a pattern of light. And wondered, did the last flowering rocket leave some of its sparks in the sky? Were there new stars there now? Is that how they get there?
All night I kept watch until the sun began to climb into the sky and the fire in the garden was blackened ash, and then I went home, and She was so pleased to see me. Sometimes it is worth hiding away for a while to get a good welcome home.
And Tom, he had a good birthday.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

A change

The day began with a pearl pale light, a shimmer of sky, a luster. Almost at once the sky cleared to bright blue, clouds blew away and the world shone bright. Then change again as the pearl returned, storm clouds gathered.
The wind came first as a whisper, a touch on the last leaves of summer, a stroke across the long grass. In the hedge by the house the full bird feeders began to sway and the bright birds flew in and were whipped away again by the invisible hand of the wind.
We curled tight in the warm as the wind began to rise.

First a whisper, then a sigh, a call from far then a shout, until the wind rose from a shout to a scream and the windcat shook and rocked at the house, curling its claws under the tiles, rattling the bones of the house, shaking her like a cat shakes a mouse, like a ship lost at sea.

And we curled in the warm in different rooms, each lost in our own dream. We let the storm rage.

And She painted moon-eyed owl in Her studio, content in her solitude.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Elmo mousing

I am hiding in the land of Green ginger, beneath the thorn trees where mice and shrew and stoat, weasel and rat live. Where birds flit and lizard tails flick, enough musing, time for mousing.

Elmo musing.

Sometimes, when the night falls and the whisker-thin cat claw moon rides the sky I sit in the branches of the ash tree, look up and think.
Dark, and the sky looks like a drum-skin of silk pulled tight across the world. Cats have danced across it and their claws made holes through which you can see the light beyond. Patterns of light across the silk of night.
Today She said to Hannah that She wished She was made of money sometimes and Hannah said "be careful what you wish for, for if you were made of money people would snap off your fingers to pay for things and then you would not be able to paint." Hannah is a wise one.
I look up at all the stars in heaven and the bridge of light that runs across the sky and sometimes a star falls leaving behind a trail of light like a cat's tail. I make a wish. And I am careful what I wish for.
I wonder what lives in the light beyond?

Overheard on a beanbag

Maurice: Did you see what Elmo wrote?
Pixie: I think our little brother is growing up.

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

Not ginger!

Looking around in the studio while She was making a cup of tea, I happened upon an article from a newspaper. Could it be that She was thinking of buying a cat? Greatly alarmed I read on. It seems that humans have "made" a new cat for people to buy.

When She came back I asked her about this piece of evidence, but it seems that She does not need another cat. She said that we are all the cats she needs and wants, but She is doing a cover for a book by Robin Hobb with a hunting cat on and thought it should look like this. But I say, what about me? Do I not hunt, am I not beautiful?

Monday, November 5, 2007

Each night, different.

Each night when we walk, clockwise around the village, each and every night, is different.
Tonight the stars shine bright. There is no moon.
Tonight there are no bats. It is too cold for the sky-mice to fly.
Tonight the rising wind plays with the dry bones of leaves that still cling to the trees.
Tonight the windcat hides around corners then springs as we walk through the dark.
Tonight the light-house at Strumble Head still sweeps the sky, a ghost of yesterday's light as there are no clouds for it to shine from. We stand between three houses of light, The Bishop, The distant Smalls light-house, and Strumble Head, each with a different rhythm of light.
Tonight we see no falling stars, but Orion strides across the night, fierce hunter.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

Night Song.

Nighttime. The beam from the lighthouse sweeps the sky, four sweeps then a pause, four sweeps then a pause, all through the dark, a rhythm of light in the clouds. The dark is full of the nighttime flight of bats, their calls like birdsong, their flight a chasing pattern of hunting. Horses call across the fields, restless in their galloping dreams. A distant dog barks harsh and cathedral bells mark time. Each sound is part of the nighttime song of the sleeping village.

Autumn symphony

Out from the house to the bright sunshine of early afternoon we walked to see if the seals had all gone. Still on the beach there was one fat pup, white but big and almost ready to go. Not long now and the mournful cry of the seals will be gone for another year. Snipe rise up from the ground beneath our feet now as we walk and small bell voiced linnets rush by in small crowds.

This is a day so beautiful. The distant rocks of Strumble Head are bleached by the sun. The hills cast a shadow over the land and sun picks out bright bracken so that the land is the colour of deep rust. We walk in the wild lands and the sea is the deepest blue.

And we are home late as the sun begins to set, lighting the sky and the soft dappled clouds. The night time creatures have begun to stir and the world is atwitch with their music, a symphony for a cat's ears.

Saturday, November 3, 2007

Song's end, Summer's end and Roses

In the garden the ghost of summer clings to the last roses that bloom. It is warm. Flocks of black birds fill the air and sometimes wild geese. Starlings are flying in from far away and bring with them a stir of cold air and an echo of snow on their dark breasts speckled with white.

On the path up the hill a moss covered stone marked the spot where a bird's song ended. Sparrowhawk leaves little but soft feathers behind after a swift kill.

On top of the hill the sky glowed and our fur shone like a setting sun. Autumn will pass swiftly into winter this year.

Friday, November 2, 2007

An Invitation

She has another exhibition coming up. The house is beginning to fill up with boxes of books and paintings and lovely bubble wrap that is so good to lie on and so warm. She tells us off for running up the paintings and hiding behind them and knocking them over.
We would like to invite all our friends from across the catblogosphere and beyond to come to the exhibition.It will be in the refectory of St Davids Cathedral, and the opening is 8-9th December, 11am - 4pm, and on show will be paintings from The Snow Leopard and others.
We realize that some of you never get out and for some the journey would be a long long way, so on 8th Dec She will make the exhibition into one that is online too, so everyone can come.
The show continues until 7th January.