It’s one of those beautiful Essex mornings when I just want to
switch of the head off & drift. When life is busy-busy I have to
build a place for the hobby-head to rebel & play. Somewhere to
recharge & be open to random possibilities. Theres a whispering
in the calm of the fields under an infinite sky loaded with stories
that I want to hear. People read books & don’t get me wrong, I love
a book, the way it smells & looks & feels, but it’s not often I can
stand to go into the spaces they invite me into & drift around in
someone else’s clothes like wearing a uniform. I pick up most books
& within the first chapter I’m desperate to write. Agitated to
escape with my pen, look around, listen, get it down, explore,
follow the signs. Haven’t got the time most days to give to a book
unless I’m in the mood, which isn’t often. Don’t follow my example,
books are good, especially the paper versions, the ones that have
no internet connections. My thing is reading signs, yeah, even
‘literally’, but today I’d rather drift around Essex listening to
the light. As it happens, life has other plans, so I’m sitting with
the corn & this lap top, watching the clock as I talk to you.
There’s a vase of camomile & fennel on the kitchen table,
underscored by the sound of a big old fridge humming to it’s self
in the corner. I’ve burned my tongue, m shovelling mouthfuls of
porridge down between thoughts, waiting for the first cup of black
stuff to cool before catching a train into the Emerald City.
I’ll be honest, I’m going off the place, never did like cities much
in Summer at the best of times, always preferred them in the rain.
It’s probably something to do with the charm of melancholia, or just
about keeping down the dust & the smell.