From my visit to Glasgow's Necropolis. Certainly won't be my last!
Hi all. It's been a bit.
My last post here was from May, after I successfully self-published my first book. After the absolute whirlwind of that, plus finals, I decided to take a step back for the summer. I kept writing, but needed a bit of time away from big projects.
Now, I'm in Scotland!
I'm here for a little more than three months to study Scottish Gaelic and Archeology. And some literature too, for good measure. I've been in Glasgow for roughly three weeks and am adjusting to the cool, wet climate. Sorry, not adjusting, thriving.
While I'm here I am working on my next big project, a historical fiction novel. It is set in eighteenth-century Scotland, after the Highland Clearances. It follows a boy named Fillip who, inadvertently, adopts a Kelpie (Scottish "water horse" demon) after his childhood best friend is killed by its predecessor. As Fillip and the Kelpie grow, they work together to navigate life in a new and changing Glasgow and ensure their secrets are kept safe.
I'm very excited to see how this project turns out.
To whet your appetites and excuse for an upcoming delay, I put in the beginning of a smaller piece I'm working on below. Gotta stay sharp!
Also -- If you'd like to support me during my time in Glasgow, you can donate to my GoFundMe here! Unfortunately, as an International Student, I am not permitted to work during my time here, so I've been pinching every penny! Any help is appreciated :)
Thanks for reading, and all my love! X
- Les
...
In Scottish Mythology, there is the concept of the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone.
The Maiden is Spring. She is fresh-born lambs and daffodils. She is the cheeky grin of Satyrs, the smell of fresh grass underfoot, and small, green buds peeping out from between branches.
The Mother is Summer. She is warmth and golden wheat. She is the fury of an August thunderstorm, the call of the everwise cicada, and the long, languid rays of afternoon sun that warm the surface of the river.
The Crone is Winter. She is decay. Frost. Rot, decomposition, the cold, icy grip of death for Spring’s buds and Summer’s wheat. She is the end.
Tha i fuar, agus tha i uabhasach.
The Crone is sometimes thought of as the Cailleach, the old woman who lived in the moon. She was there at the beginning, watched as the Glens and Lochs took shape. She is the mist on the Highland moors, the moss clinging to a weathered gravestone, and the raindrops on a slick cobblestone street.
She has seen it all.
I have seen it all.
I’ve seen the mountains. I’ve seen the ocean. I’ve seen life and death, watched angels dance on the head of a pin and heard the saccharine sweet call of sin. I’ve seen empires fall, languages die, and planets disappear. I was there when Adam ripped out the rib, was there when Eve took a bite, and watched as mankind became…men.
I’ve seen galaxies, nebulas, constellations trapped behind the thin glass of reading lenses. I’ve tasted the blood of Christ on sugared lips, and traced the marks of conquest across your skin. I’ve witnessed miracles hidden in scrambled eggs and the Divine Rapture in a pack of menthols. I saw the moon weep as you watched me leave, eyes tucked between the slats of shitty apartment blinds, and I did not fade away.
I am ancient.
She is ancient.
We are tired.
© Lesley Porterfield, 2023
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