Miss Winkworth - 17 October 2015
The following piece of writing was written by NWP MK group leader, Emma Exelby, at an NWP meeting on 17 October 2015. It arose from readings and exercises described on the October 2015 blog entitled 'Writing with Natalie Goldberg, Moniza Alvi and others.'
It is an example of the writing that emerges in 20 -30 minutes. It was written after discussion of an extract of Natalie Goldberg's 'Writing Down the Bones', and Moniza Alvi's poem 'I would like to be a dot in a painting by Miro'. It was read to us by Emma. Then we commented on what we liked about it, and we talked about its resonances and the process of writing.
Miss Winkworth sighed, a sound that slid beneath the muddle of voices that hummed in the café around her: the ripple of giggles from a toddler, bubbles of conversation, half heard words, a constant trickle of warm breath articulated in a haze of temporary community. Occasionally she caught snippets, but she let the word sounds drift decoupled from their meaning. She watched the faces, the smiles and animated hands that gestured enthusiastic energy, and she watched the resonating silences that lay between older couples- pockets of heavy weather in an otherwise noisy space.
Miss Winkworth, unnoticed. Seeming non-descript, late 50s, more grey than blonde pulled back into an untidy bun, she had a thin face with soft lines etched around narrow pink lips.
Thanatos had taken over Eros and the time for letting go was drawing closer.
She didn’t want the chemo: at stage four, they’d said, it might mean another twelve months, maybe eighteen. The oncologist had smiled, a practised mix of sympathy, of encouragement.
But a good death was her plan now: a good death, not a desperate cling to a twenty-first century remedy.
A good death meant that today she sipped hot tea slowly and noticed the tang of bergamot melt across her tongue, slide slowly down and offer warmth on this chilly October morning. A good death meant holding the bounce and swish of hair in pink ribbons as a young girl ran to save a table for her mum who bore the treasure of chocolate brownies. A good death meant that she could fold herself in the bubblewrap closeness of this group of people here, today, and know their sorrows and their joys were hers, in this day, were shared, were touched, were listened to, not too close and not too far away.
Miss Winkworth sat with the seed of her own death, a rooted tumour, held in the core of her living breathing body. Unnoticed in the glorious courage of her smile, she sipped her tea.
It is an example of the writing that emerges in 20 -30 minutes. It was written after discussion of an extract of Natalie Goldberg's 'Writing Down the Bones', and Moniza Alvi's poem 'I would like to be a dot in a painting by Miro'. It was read to us by Emma. Then we commented on what we liked about it, and we talked about its resonances and the process of writing.
Miss Winkworth sighed, a sound that slid beneath the muddle of voices that hummed in the café around her: the ripple of giggles from a toddler, bubbles of conversation, half heard words, a constant trickle of warm breath articulated in a haze of temporary community. Occasionally she caught snippets, but she let the word sounds drift decoupled from their meaning. She watched the faces, the smiles and animated hands that gestured enthusiastic energy, and she watched the resonating silences that lay between older couples- pockets of heavy weather in an otherwise noisy space.
Miss Winkworth, unnoticed. Seeming non-descript, late 50s, more grey than blonde pulled back into an untidy bun, she had a thin face with soft lines etched around narrow pink lips.
Thanatos had taken over Eros and the time for letting go was drawing closer.
She didn’t want the chemo: at stage four, they’d said, it might mean another twelve months, maybe eighteen. The oncologist had smiled, a practised mix of sympathy, of encouragement.
But a good death was her plan now: a good death, not a desperate cling to a twenty-first century remedy.
A good death meant that today she sipped hot tea slowly and noticed the tang of bergamot melt across her tongue, slide slowly down and offer warmth on this chilly October morning. A good death meant holding the bounce and swish of hair in pink ribbons as a young girl ran to save a table for her mum who bore the treasure of chocolate brownies. A good death meant that she could fold herself in the bubblewrap closeness of this group of people here, today, and know their sorrows and their joys were hers, in this day, were shared, were touched, were listened to, not too close and not too far away.
Miss Winkworth sat with the seed of her own death, a rooted tumour, held in the core of her living breathing body. Unnoticed in the glorious courage of her smile, she sipped her tea.