Wednesday, 24 February 2016
Micro life, micro death, by Stevie Haston.
As I was sorting an abseil rope today at the top of the cliff, I broke my hand hold, and started to topple towards the long away floor, all sharp, and dark, dangerous, and hard. I did that revolving arm thing, wind milled around ineffectively, on the brink of having a little catastrophe. In seemed to go for ever, but lasted a micro second, the wind stopped, time stopped my heart stopped. The rock hand hold hit the ground, and then time started again. Phew etc.
These little deaths, these mishaps, how many times will they not actually happen, in that final, catastrophic, hit the deck kinda way?
And then the wind whistles its sweet song, the colours do their magic watercolour story across your retina, the rock is generous, and shows you a path up its impregnability, and everything is roses. The pigeons where whipping around in the force 5, going through the gaps much faster. They were playing jet fighters. My heart was all calm as it all ways is here again, just the sea, the cliff, and a distant ship passing. I don't know what I would do without this little corner, it's my little sanctuary of sanity. I have had my life, and most of the good bits were on the cliff, and mountain, but stay safe, hold fast.