I recently did a creative writing workshop; one of our tasks was to look at a picture assigned to us, & then freewrite (just respond & write what came to mind without overthinking) for 15 minutes. In the spirit of the exercise, & all things New Year, which for me involves NO perfectionism – I share it with you. Without editing at all or fussing about whether or not it’s the best first post for 2015; done is better than perfect, something better than nothing & all that.
Curious. Nostalgic. Homesick. Orange.
Peaceful. Distracted. So so far from home.
Birds birds birds. Mine! Mine! 32 Wallaby Way Sydney… Sid-e-knee
A lolly to make you jolly & some water for your daughter my darling…
Why would they leave their stuff out – it looks new & it’s going to get knicked. Oh wait – where are we? Maybe they leave well enough alone here… maybe they owners are behind the rock changing hoping nobody comes to see.
Maybe there are street kids straggling along the water line who’ll scare them into staying on land until they have the cove to themselves again. Wait; there are no street kids because really there are no streets. And where people leave well enough, and others stuff, alone – there there are also no street kids.
Little breakers, lots of rocks. No surfers. Family of flippers. Wherever we are we are so far from home.
Yet the ocean is the same constant comfort in spite of my displacement. The ultimate ebb and flow… endless and mindless, effortless and timeless.
This. A discombobulation of location, this is what is not foreign to me.
A quandary, constant query of ‘where are we’ again. Are you serious, is this the twilight zone? And ‘how does this work’; how does it work where we are? I check and double take – remind myself of current realities while not wanting to forget global actualities.
Do you know where you’re going to… do you like the things that life is showing you? Where are you going to? Do you know?
I see Water. I see Colours. I reach for Watercolours to wash over the white of the pages and leave a base coat to doodle words over with an inky pen – even if it bleeds. It bleeds as I drip, leaking from my eyes, wiping my nose on my sleeve where my heart seems to sit.To be or not to be, or where to be? But what to be? Surely THAT is the question…