Monday, December 8, 2014


There was nobody else there, just Jazz the dog. 
He looked up at me, questioning, 

"Why had I stopped?" 

There was just a feeling of restlessness.

It hadn't occurred to me how freedom is framed.   

I had never felt such an extreme reaction to the captive eye, to a page.

All means of capture: camera, phone, pen, paper, I had left at home.  

Nobody would be able to walk with me and the dog. 

It was an unmoment.  

I was on dog-time.  

Jazz looked up again, my eye caught his eye.

There he was again, questioning,

"What are we doing?" 
"Is this where will stay?" 
"Will we stay here for ever?"

The way he moved his head to one side seemed to indicate patient impatience.  

"I am fine here."
"Is that it?"

We continued on a while up the path. 

This was it for Jazz, he could snuffle around in leaves anew.

Suddenly he looked up to listen.  

This time, it was him who stopped me in my tracks.

"What was that?"
"What made that noise?"
"Where was it?"
"Is it safe?"

 A few yards on, the clouds were becoming rather menacing.  

I felt a few spots of rain.  

There were gusts of winds rustling the surviving leaves on the trees. 


Along the path, the sky seemed to have fallen onto the path. 

Where there had been a muddy trail, there was a fairly large expanse of cloud.  

We stopped to observe. 

Mud around the sky glistened as if varnished.  

Heavy-booted footprints disappeared only to reappear a few paces further.

Rain drops dissolved the sky's illusion.  

Circles of tiny shockwaves expanded and collided across the sky-mirror's surface.  

I looked up at the sky, I looked down at myself looking up. 

I appeared to be suspended, spirit-like.

Jazz took a closer look, no this sky was undrinkable.

I took a closer look, I was puddlestruck.

We stood there watching the stories span out across the fluid surface.  

There was no plot, only cirles, only ever expanding sometime converging circles.

I was so absorbed that I felt myself slipping deeper. 

I was now looking up, from under the water.

I came up towards the surface.

I saw tree-branches. 

It is only now, that I have realised that I was seeing tree-branches from another country.  

I had been puddle-ported to Kentucky. 

It was an image that comes from Terry Elliott's post: 

This is what I was seeing: the moment when the water-bucket disappears.

Discussions about framing  had clearly emerged in a new space.  

Here is what Terry writes:

"So I went outside.  It’s what I always do when I am drowned by the profusion of the net. I am driven to move into a larger, slower, deeper and more profoundly simultaneous system.  Nature or Gaia or the Mother or the Father.  Name matters not.  I just step into a vision in a rain barrel."

There is something comforting, something animistic in meeting those we have never met outside of a screen in a puddle-journey...


  1. Here is the hunt begun anew:

  2. The rain barrel has always reminded me of a scrying bowl, the province of hedge wizards and witches. Pretty need images in Google Image search.

  3. This post is a poem - a love letter - a delight. thx for puddlestruck!

  4. Thank you Maureen for wandering here and adding to my pondering.

  5. If you invent one good word in your life, you have live that life well. Puddlestruck is one such word. Good on ya, Simon.