Friday, August 10

Just another story

(there was a poem here.)

Again, draft.

(and here, too.)

Okay, okay, it's a draft...

(and, *dun-dun-dun*... here as well.)

I enjoy. (Simply to make me feel better. No, not in order of significance.)

  1. watching cold air coming in from the window to colliding with hot, showery steam
  2. eating the cake mix, raw egg included, rather than the final baked thing
  3. pulling grass up. (Hayfever can be ignored.)
  4. a nosebleed after a headache (the pressure goes, so it is relaxing to an extent, bar the health side-effects of lots of blood suddenly running out of my nose.)
  5. walking barefoot after a bikeride
  6. cycling very fast, or cycling very slow
  7. knowing exactly how low the trees hang and not getting scratched by them
  8. when strangers say hello, hi, goodevening, etc or even a simple smile (but only, only if it's obvious they actually want to do this.)
  9. sitting on the swings in playgrounds and kicking my feet up high
  10. pulling leaves of bushes, and petals off flowers, then portioning them (despite thinking flowers cut off are a bad idea because, essentially, they are dead things. Hypocritical? maybe.)
  11. doodling anything when I'm stressed
  12. folding paper, cutting paper into small bits, tearing paper. Paper, in general.
  13. finding random objects around (a book, a ring, a pair of lovely leather gloves...)
  14. walking too fast, too far, or both: either way, so that the muscles ache.
  15. the sound when you purse your lips and blow through them. (crap description...)
  16. spinning on office chairs, particularly in places like Ikea where there's lots of space.
  17. the thing where you hold someone else's hands and spin round crazily fast so that you end up fantastically dizzy (advisable to try this on grass, or some relatively soft surface, where there aren't any major rocks around. Unless, of course, you have intent of harming them. Generally I don't.)
  18. diving underwater, feeling the oxygen run out, and pushing it as far as possible.

Monday, August 6

Ideas happen at night, disturb attempts at calm and sleep, even though I've deliberately left my glasses, pen/pencil, and notebook on the other side of the room as a deterrant. It must be the space, the sudden space of doing nothing physically other than basic life requirements (breathing, digesting, etc etc), which brings them.

I've been carrying a story for what seems like forever; in poems, sections of prose, cut out things, photographs, ideas, many walks and a lot of time spent cycling, in the bits I've picked out as with mixed salad, and have skewered, forked, prepared to exhaust; the characters are solidifying themselves, the traits, the sayings, their expressions stamping and refusing to move... it - everything, seemingly - has almost brewed, I think.