Just Don't Eat the Pomegranate Seeds

I used to relish IKEA.  Designs that are clever, useful and beautiful.  Figuring out what on earth some of them actually are.  Returning home with prized finds. 

In Glasgow last week, I took the prophesied odyssey to IKEA.  It’s six months since I last visited.  Driving there is a trial of road-raged lunacy, and the air stinks with traffic fumes.  I felt like I could taste them.  Then inside, the no windows, blue-white light, walking, blinking, bleak miles-ness of superstores.  A meandering daze in the maze of the underworld.  Invoking a dream of eating the lotus, taking a big nap.  Preferably somewhere the air is fresh and sea-breezy.  It brought memories of late lockdown and how foreign speed, noise and bright lights had become.  We salved our souls with hygge homelife. Were so slow and quiet, goats wandered, Pan-like.  Life wasn’t slow for everyone.  But no wonder people can’t bear being part of city life anymore.  It jangles the mind.  Rattles the soul.  Asks us, ‘Wake up!  Don’t you miss the true Arcadia?’

Inside, avoiding the mesmeric browse, I escaped through the shortcut doors instead.  I had specific tasks; picture frames and small glass jars. Some jars for seeds.  Some to transport inks to the woods, for wild alfresco sketch-booking.  Who knows, may even invoke Pan.

Coming home, unpacking stuff rounds off the pleasure of a city trip away.  At least it used to.  For now, the swag is in the hallway waiting for inspiration to rise again, like Persephone.  Just a couple of slow days for now.  Ritual walk along the beach, breathing the fresh air, counting my blessings.  Gratitude for the real golden fleece.

Picture frames were on sale for £1.

I bought 13. 

For the blackbirds. 

Out of chaos, comes the light.

This is how odysseys begin. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=keke7BGzJPI