When I write a story I think it before I type it. Although thinking implies an action on my part. What actually happens is a sort of spillage. My mind just leaks words somehow and at some point, when they have finished pouring and swirling around, I type them down to look at them and see how they are.
This hasn't happened so often recently. I have tried to make myself sit and type and the words just aren't there. But the other night on Twitter there was an opening in my mind and words poured out from memories shut away. So I am recording them here because Twitter is so transient and I want to ponder them and their impact.
It is a formidable thing the mind. All these things hiding away allowing only glimpses and yet somehow the mind whispers to me when it thinks I am ready to see more. I wasn't.
I miss the laughter of word play.
I miss the words.
Pondering the last banana in the house and considering a chocolate mousse chaser.
Strip Scrabble & Oblique Strategies, strangers in a bar, a Crazy Bear copper bath, an unwritten book & Guernica in Madrid.
A boat on open water, a brazilian, an unseen drawing, enforced silence, swimming naked, sharing & growing old disgracefully.
From dream to reality. And silence.
Oh indeed a buggar [sic]
Sister Dee and the handyman. Such a ridiculous beginning. Little wonder perhaps.
Belt buckles and silk, chocolate and wine.
Back. A picture. Words.
A message placed tenderly on a bedside cabinet. Now hiding in the darkness of another.
Hazelnut liqueur on ice.
Midnight deluxe bacon butties and guitar hands.
The red chair. Cold night air. Music from Babette.
Damp woodland carpet. Never miss a drop.
Buttercup pollen and the taste of cotton.
To sleep perchance to dream, ay, there's the rub... #Bugger (I can spell it.)
This hasn't happened so often recently. I have tried to make myself sit and type and the words just aren't there. But the other night on Twitter there was an opening in my mind and words poured out from memories shut away. So I am recording them here because Twitter is so transient and I want to ponder them and their impact.
It is a formidable thing the mind. All these things hiding away allowing only glimpses and yet somehow the mind whispers to me when it thinks I am ready to see more. I wasn't.
I miss the laughter of word play.
I miss the words.
Pondering the last banana in the house and considering a chocolate mousse chaser.
Strip Scrabble & Oblique Strategies, strangers in a bar, a Crazy Bear copper bath, an unwritten book & Guernica in Madrid.
A boat on open water, a brazilian, an unseen drawing, enforced silence, swimming naked, sharing & growing old disgracefully.
From dream to reality. And silence.
Oh indeed a buggar [sic]
Sister Dee and the handyman. Such a ridiculous beginning. Little wonder perhaps.
Belt buckles and silk, chocolate and wine.
Back. A picture. Words.
A message placed tenderly on a bedside cabinet. Now hiding in the darkness of another.
Hazelnut liqueur on ice.
Midnight deluxe bacon butties and guitar hands.
The red chair. Cold night air. Music from Babette.
Damp woodland carpet. Never miss a drop.
Buttercup pollen and the taste of cotton.
To sleep perchance to dream, ay, there's the rub... #Bugger (I can spell it.)
