The happenings of the past week have added an element of turmoil, let’s just say the manic depressive police have intervened regarding my recent bout of melancholy and applied a garnish of medicine which, despite today being the first day of the said reining in, I’ve acquired an element of concentration. I’ve spent the past few days locked away in my house, growing something that looks momentarily (in good light) like a beard, eating like a recently divorced wife and watching my hair expand. I’m beginning to look like Sirius black, which is ever so slightly cool if not cancelled out by the Potter reference.
I feel rather dandy now, feeling cosy, almost autumn-esque. Scribbling I’ve just been doing and enjoying it immensely. I love writing, I love the satisfaction you get as you read back upon a passage, as it flows, the sound of the inner monologue becoming music as words ebb and flow and twirl and jump. My appreciation is mostly, I suppose musical. Bizarrely I never read poetry. I become so engrossed in the flow, listening to myself reading it in my head that, like listening to music, the meaning disappears. Unless I deliberately tune into the lyrics, they become just another instrument to the band and that’s what reading poetry is like for me. (I hope that made sense).
I’ve spent a great deal of money and time recently watching films, nothing previously unseen, just old films I know will cheer me up, whisking me off into another world. It’s been expensive too and my mac is bulging under the strain of many gigabytes of extra weight to contend with.
So besides all this and more turmoil you’d rather not know about. My life’s been rather mundane, simples, with classical music in the background and a dishevelled mind trying to make sense of the world…