Monday, 5 August 2013

Dream baby dream

Last night I dreamt my agent saw me on German television and came here to lie with me in a swimming pool and talk about stories. Her presence attracted the flamingoes, but when I told her I was terrified of large birds she shooed them all away. She kept moving behind me in the pool. Televisions flickering with pictures of me in a green and navy polyester dress and the birds necks hanging in the water like bunting ribbons.


I need to finish some more stories. I am aware of this. Fuck the working week. Hello notebooks. Hej där! following these paths down as deep as they go. Aloha! a patch of grass by a lake under these 34º summer clouds. Dobrodošli! some time in my brain for these words. 

I know I am crafting my own life out of the felt of the universe.
I know I have no more excuses for not getting things done.

But but but. Friends visiting to feast with. Soft weekend skin to feast upon. All of our crises raining down at once.

I need to remind myself that there's never going to come that day where everything is sorted, so I might as well get started.

This is the practice school of writing. Like running, the more you do it, the better you get at it. Some days you don't want to run and you resist every step of the three miles, but you do it anyway. You practice whether you want to or not. You don't wait around for inspiration and a deep desire to run. It'll never happen, especially if you are out of shape and have been avoiding it. But if you run regularly, you train your mind to cut through or ignore your resistance. You just do it. And in the middle of the run, you love it. When you come to the end, you never want to stop. And you stop, hungry for the next time.
- Natalie Goldberg

I know. I get it. Why are we so bad at remembering?

I am reading metaphors into everything: an aubergine recipe, my bathroom cleaning technique, last night's weather, those sunflowers.

I am listening to pre-1980 Queen music and nursing a HOT-DAMN crush on Freddie Mercury circa-Crazy Little Thing Called Love. (Seriously. I just. Wha.)

I am doing a yoga routine every fucking morning. There have been two mornings so far. I cannot help but feel foolish about my tendency to believe wholeheartedly in the transformative power of new routines and my ability to stick to them.

You know?

I am also forever starting new notebooks with the promise that this will be the right one, the one I will carry everywhere, the one I will write in every day, the one that will come with me, the one that will only be for creative words, never for shopping lists. I am convinced that one day I will buy the right notebook and become this person.

I am a fool. Whatever. I have very few problems with this label.

Some recent story obsessions: an old library after the apocalypse. A funfair haunted house lit up entirely in blue. Lightning storms. The idea that stories literally create the physicality of the universe. The sound of wasps chewing untreated wood. Hurdy-gurdies. The symbolism we place in crocodiles.

It's time to stop writing around the words and get up close, face to face. To look these stories in the eye. To walk up to them in the field and not worry if they've invited my presence, if it's awkward, if they're not quite ready to be my friend. Cześć. I need to tell them to come inside.

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