a Writer's Diary - Part 4: The Text About Text
Another day altogether. The lawn had gone a fresh, newly-sprung green in the last two weeks.
It was an odd kind of day. A hurtling-forwards-while-standing-still kind of day. A day of kind of belonging, but belonging a little on the side.
She sighed as her fingers poured over the keyboard at a quiet pace. There were words today. Not plenty of words, but just enough, and just easily enough placed at the almost-front of her mind, so she didn’t have to reach too far, or pull too hard to grab them.
But she was in an odd kind of mood, and it put her concentration at a slant, just a little. In her minds eye, mountains rose in purple-blue fog and called for weather dragons, who circled the mountains lazily, partly sheltered by the fog. Fire spirits and water nymphs darted on the hurtling updrafts. But behind her inner vision, a little behind her eyes, towards the back of her head, doubts and fears swirled in a lazy, leering circle.
And an insistent throbbing on her left side temple kept knocking her head a little in and out of position. The pain was dull, and kind of companionable, but also tedious.
She had a lot of these headaches nowadays. Some swift and knuckle-crushing; some little, warm blooms on the side of her head on a humid day. Today was a humid day. A mild, but grey and humid day.
The sheep were gone, she noticed. When had they gone?
She picked up a red marker, pulled out a post-it, and noted:
Toothless vampire chefs FIGHTING talking pirate cats
- Pirate cats fight by being adorable and toothful
- Vampires fight by throwing kitchen knives
Then she prodded the post-it to a blank page in her notebook. And then she prodded some sparkly stickers on the corners. Then she prodded some more sparkly stickers on the notes on the other page. The notes were written in Christmas-red and sunflower-yellow markers. In fact, with the yellow post-it, and the huge, bright red sticker depicting a hand making a rock on-sing, the whole arrangement gave the impression of having a deliberate theme.
She contemplated this this with a half-raised eyebrow, then shrugged. This phenomenon was a life companion; like a slightly annoying younger cousin you could never quite shake off, but who somehow made you look all the more humanitarian for the effort.
A sip of coffee.
A nose scratch.
Pure Imagination by Dave Harrington Group vibrated in long, languid waves off the old Music Angel in the window. She darted a glance outside again. This time her gaze snagged on the silver linings on the heavy, blue-grey rainclouds, and her thoughts came to a slow, wondering halt. Her spirit - her essence, started roiling, lifting, soaring, hurtling upwards with the wind; being tossed from voluptuos birch branch to voluptuous birch branch, thrown higher and higher ´til it mingled with the swirling masses of condensed water.
It was an odd kind of day. A hurtling-forwards-while-standing-still kind of day. A day of kind of belonging, but belonging a little on the side.
She sighed as her fingers poured over the keyboard at a quiet pace. There were words today. Not plenty of words, but just enough, and just easily enough placed at the almost-front of her mind, so she didn’t have to reach too far, or pull too hard to grab them.
But she was in an odd kind of mood, and it put her concentration at a slant, just a little. In her minds eye, mountains rose in purple-blue fog and called for weather dragons, who circled the mountains lazily, partly sheltered by the fog. Fire spirits and water nymphs darted on the hurtling updrafts. But behind her inner vision, a little behind her eyes, towards the back of her head, doubts and fears swirled in a lazy, leering circle.
And an insistent throbbing on her left side temple kept knocking her head a little in and out of position. The pain was dull, and kind of companionable, but also tedious.
She had a lot of these headaches nowadays. Some swift and knuckle-crushing; some little, warm blooms on the side of her head on a humid day. Today was a humid day. A mild, but grey and humid day.
The sheep were gone, she noticed. When had they gone?
She picked up a red marker, pulled out a post-it, and noted:
Toothless vampire chefs FIGHTING talking pirate cats
- Pirate cats fight by being adorable and toothful
- Vampires fight by throwing kitchen knives
Then she prodded the post-it to a blank page in her notebook. And then she prodded some sparkly stickers on the corners. Then she prodded some more sparkly stickers on the notes on the other page. The notes were written in Christmas-red and sunflower-yellow markers. In fact, with the yellow post-it, and the huge, bright red sticker depicting a hand making a rock on-sing, the whole arrangement gave the impression of having a deliberate theme.
She contemplated this this with a half-raised eyebrow, then shrugged. This phenomenon was a life companion; like a slightly annoying younger cousin you could never quite shake off, but who somehow made you look all the more humanitarian for the effort.
A sip of coffee.
A nose scratch.
Pure Imagination by Dave Harrington Group vibrated in long, languid waves off the old Music Angel in the window. She darted a glance outside again. This time her gaze snagged on the silver linings on the heavy, blue-grey rainclouds, and her thoughts came to a slow, wondering halt. Her spirit - her essence, started roiling, lifting, soaring, hurtling upwards with the wind; being tossed from voluptuos birch branch to voluptuous birch branch, thrown higher and higher ´til it mingled with the swirling masses of condensed water.
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