Saturday, 26 April 2014
Wednesday, 2 April 2014
Saturday, 15 March 2014
Ode to the one thing that makes life bearable
Ode to the one thing that makes life bearable
The sun on your face,
From where the curtains don't close,
Find your way through the maze,
That the sandman chose.
The night is long over,
New dawn broke hours ago,
You try to turn over,
But know a lost case when you see one and so;
Turn over one more time, roll over the edge of your beloved bed,
Warm feet hit cold, cold floor,
The tone for a new day is set,
And you stumble through your bathroom door.
Spray of hot water,
Right onto your sleepy (sleeping?) face,
Waking up will have to happen later,
For now everything remains a sleepy haze.
Down the stairs and set the kettle,
On the stove without a thought,
By the table now you settle,
Thinking that you really aught-
A sharp whistle tears sweet silence,
Of your early morning haze,
Breaks through thoughts with early morning violence,
And for the first time, brings a smile upon your face.
As you breathe in the stream,
Of today's first cup of tea,
For the first time it would seem,
Today might actually be a good place to be.
Of your early morning haze,
Breaks through thoughts with early morning violence,
And for the first time, brings a smile upon your face.
As you breathe in the stream,
Of today's first cup of tea,
For the first time it would seem,
Today might actually be a good place to be.
Tuesday, 7 January 2014
Wednesday, 11 December 2013
Create your own Sunshine (or allow others to create it for you)
Sometimes people conspire to show you that the world is actually a really, really amazing place, as long as you give it a chance to be amazing.
After worrying and stressing about it for weeks, I swallowed my pride last night and asked people on facebook if they had any kitchen appliances available that I could buy cheaply. I'm moving in January and don't have a lot of money, but need to improvise a complete kitchen.
Sixteen hours later, I've had enough offers to compile not one but two kitchens, most of it either free or very nearly so. Some of the people who offered, I barely even know (and one of them I don't know at all). I'm a bit overwhelmed and so, so grateful.
After worrying and stressing about it for weeks, I swallowed my pride last night and asked people on facebook if they had any kitchen appliances available that I could buy cheaply. I'm moving in January and don't have a lot of money, but need to improvise a complete kitchen.
Sixteen hours later, I've had enough offers to compile not one but two kitchens, most of it either free or very nearly so. Some of the people who offered, I barely even know (and one of them I don't know at all). I'm a bit overwhelmed and so, so grateful.
Thursday, 21 November 2013
Surprise stories
Sometimes I sit down and write. I don't think about it, I don't even really make stuff up, I just write. It's like there's this story or poem in my head and all I have to do is write it down. Like there's this narrator and all I have to do is put the narrative on paper. Once that's done, more often than not, I give the file some redundant name and close it, because I'll usually be late for whatever I should've been doing in the time that I just spend typing out this story or poem. Then I forget about it.
You read that correctly: I forget about it. Once in a while, I have this thing where I click random files in my writing or poetry folder and just read and let myself be surprised. I'll often have only the vaguest recollection of writing it. It's undoubtedly mine. My style of writing, my signature, my particular brand of spelling errors. More often than not, it's even pretty good. But it's like it was in my head, needed out and once it was out it was done and okay to forget about. All these forgotten stories and poems have three hallmarks:
1. They are all first person and, stemming from that, usually flow of consciousness writing. When I consciously write, I always write third person.
2. They all have a certain flow in the writing that is nearly lyrical, even the prose.
3. They don't cover my usual subject matter
So does anyone else recognize this? Is this what people talk about when they talk about muses or 'divine inspiration'? Or am I just bonkers and dramatizing something that's really normal? Just curious.
You read that correctly: I forget about it. Once in a while, I have this thing where I click random files in my writing or poetry folder and just read and let myself be surprised. I'll often have only the vaguest recollection of writing it. It's undoubtedly mine. My style of writing, my signature, my particular brand of spelling errors. More often than not, it's even pretty good. But it's like it was in my head, needed out and once it was out it was done and okay to forget about. All these forgotten stories and poems have three hallmarks:
1. They are all first person and, stemming from that, usually flow of consciousness writing. When I consciously write, I always write third person.
2. They all have a certain flow in the writing that is nearly lyrical, even the prose.
3. They don't cover my usual subject matter
So does anyone else recognize this? Is this what people talk about when they talk about muses or 'divine inspiration'? Or am I just bonkers and dramatizing something that's really normal? Just curious.
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