spontaneous writing on my very own blog: hurtles, backfiring, over the crescent of the yellow hill, dazzled by sunflowers and a myriad daisies and yellow tulips and multiple suns and I’ve been brain washed to thinking what I write and draw can never be quite good enough… what do you think?
22nd Dec 15
So many things to say. Chair scrapes accross the plastic tiles behind me in this cafe. Before I started writing I had so many ideas of what to write about in my brain. Now I start I don’t know which idea to use first.
I think the first thing is: people actually follow me on my blog!
TThis gives me a totally different feeling about my writing. It has added meaning … but I must remember it is still MY diary I’m writing … I’m still writing for me.
So, my diary, is about what is happening to me, today!
Well, I’ve just dumped a lot of “rubbish” at the rubbish tip, a surprisingly beautiful place, in its organisation … a skip for every category of stuff we have no use for anymore.
As l tipped the empty cardboard IKEA packages into the cardboard and paper skip, I saw them as precious materials to be recycled into something else…
… and isn’t that what we all are?… precious materials, that will be recycled into something else after we die …(indeed nothing is lost … )
and, taking that thought further , aren’t we, in one moment, (or, indeed, isn’t the moment itself?), precious materials to be recycled into a totally different form, (even though it may appear the same), in the next moment?
So, this is my diary. I have just eaten a cheese roll, (like a sausage roll except cheese,) here, in the Amsterdam Hema, (a shop I want to write a song of praise about), and I’m trying not to eat wheat , or all grain products) , hard not to when I’m finally on my own and writing my diary / blog…. in the Hema cafe …
( l like using 3 dots… it flows … more like my life, no clear cut endings or beginnings except in my songwriting and paintings )
… And I’ve also, in the past, made a website for my music teaching and it didn’t take off, even though my teaching method works like pure genius in the real world, and now as I write about me and about my life … I get followers! imagine that.
I feel one of my problems (but probably its one of my strengths if I work it right ), is that I’m a kaliedosope of things, a patch-work quilt of interests, passions, skills, ( a pure aquarius ) … I find it hard to categorize myself:
I’m a visual artist, musician, writer, therapist , poet, gatherer of ideas, songwriter, listener , teacher, inspirer, sculptor … the list goes on …
well that will do for now. See you tomorrow , or later today, in the next available, completely different moment! 🙂
sitting in our tiny living room waiting for man to arrive to fix the window.Forced to stay put, I gradually arrive and my breath deepens and my shoulders drop …
… now he’s arrived and he is fixing the window … its open and a clean, cool, fresh wind blows in … very welcome after a week with the window screwed shut.
Outside birds sing … dawn chorus … faint light appears through the skylight above me … a hum and the faint tap of my Spen stylus … me trying to write about what is in this moment
… tiredness behind my eyes …
apps are the Alladins cave … I lie awake all night searching for more and more … I always come back to Snotes. Must leave this device downstairs at night – must!
Feel better for writing about it all though – money low again – gig tomorrow night with bass player – should sleep – will have to cancel lesson tomorrow – no time for me … hardly – only way to get time for me is to lie in bed at night writing on my device … I have no children to carry my genes on – how strange – this particular billion years old evolutionary line – ends here – with me …
and yet, as there is only this moment what does it really matter?
l lie in bed waiting for Godot … oh how far does it go? – this spirit and spiral the past is just a memory, the future is ? … I close this ragged door and the pitiful strangers pass through … they collide and ricoche across tragic ballroom floors, they dance heavily on the poished wood, their heavy, muddy boots, dragging.
Where are they/we now?… our apples smelling over-ripe, in their orange boxes, stored on the dry, dusty floor of the woodshed at the bottom of that muddy track .
oh, take these blinkers from my eyes
… let me see again
… through this silly, rattling rain, hammering lightly on the corrugated iron of the goat’s shed at bottom of the garden. And beyond the shed: the ditch and beyond the ditch: the field, where the black and white cows sometimes ran …
…oh yesterday is gone and I’m learning,
… who knows maybe I’II have a family yet?
… and maybe there is another lifetime, endless Planet Earths, in endless, different dimensions, and us, merely transfering from one to another.
… and my own father’s life has finally reached the end … God bless him… it is so wierd.