The thing about writing is, it’s a solitary activity.
Not lonely, just singular. Every day since the weekend
I’ve shared that sacred morning space reserved for writing,
with someone else. Conversations, radio broadcasts, music, questions
craving answers, all of them distractions from the true purpose of
morning, that being ‘meditation’. I can’t sit, eyes closed,
emptying my mind. Soporific music just drives me crazy. The
sound of the wind & rain inspires me to poetry & a ticking clock
takes me back to a melancholy youth, that or a groove & I can’t
stand trying to switch off around a groove especially a
dripping tap. Like, right now, there are chimes in a tree, the
sound of a gentle breeze, a passenger jet flying high overhead
& occasional distant traffic, but all I can here is the polyrhythmic
groove of the bloody chimes in the tree!
I crave a cafe, any cafe, 07:30 – 08:30. A pot of steaming black
tea, a bowl of porridge, a note book, a pen, a cellphone with
internet connections so I can message my sister & then leave me alone.
A place to let the dog run free, uninterrupted, un-required.
One hour away without having to engage in conversation or give an
opinion or receive information or even just have to listen to
anything I might be expected to absorb & remember. This beautiful
hour is my sand pit, the place I can make deliberately rubbish marks,
unfettered by the demand to become anything more than
points on a journey between here & somewhere fantastic.