Wednesday, 15 July 2015
The meanderings of my mind . . .
I sit and think a lot . . . well, not always sit . . . sometimes I am thinking when I am out and about and doing and all sorts. My brain is always ticking . . . I am always writing a story or a poem or some thought in my brain. And if I am lucky enough to do so . . . I even remember them long enough to get them down onto paper. My work desk is filled with scraps of paper with words and sentences haphazardly scribbled onto them.
Sentences only I can make any sense of . . .
"There was an old lady
with a wart on her nose
in a baggy black dress
and wrinkled black hose . . . "
Oftimes when I am in the shower my best ideas come to me . . . and were anyone to listen at the door they would hear me in there saying the same words over and over again in my bid to not forget them before I can get out of the shower and write them down . . .
Note to self . . . look for some shower or bath crayons.
"She wore long pointy shoes
on her long pointy feet
and she lived in a house
at the end of our street . . . "
I often think in rhyming sentences and I wonder, does everyone? Think in rhymes? Or am I crazy? I can often be seen muttering words . . . words that rhyme. Seeing if they fit I suppose . . . or trying to see if I can fit them together in sentences that make sense or tell a story . . .
"Like two mighty arms of stone
stretched out into the sea . . .
the harbour holds the little ships
in snug security . . . "
Every so often I tell myself I need to compile all of these meanderings into one succinct volume . . . one notebook . . .
A single place where one day . . . when I am gone beyond the wall . . . someone can find them and then hopefully treasure them.
And then I think to myself . . . is this my legacy???
A notebook filled with meandering poetic lines and sentences???
"Lovely is the London dusk
when autumn twilight falls . . .
cloaking in a gauzy mist
the blitzed and blackened walls . . . "
Is this how Emily Dickenson worked? Jane Austin? Charlotte Bronte?
How dare I compare the workings of my mind with the genius of theirs. Such audacity . . .
"Far away the Winter seemed
when blossom hung about the pane . . .
and garden gay with colour shimmered
in the summer rain . . . "
I daren't, I musten't (Is that even a word?) compare my simple musings with the likes of theirs. They are classics. Having withstood the test of time. My words pale in comparison . . . always.
But then I stop and think . . . did Louisa May question what transpired on the sheets of paper she scribbled on? Or Lucy Maude? Did Margaret Atwood ever wonder about the words that fell out, or question her ability to string them together coherently in such a way that anyone else would ever want to read them?
Or did she put them down simply because she could not consider never putting them down . . .
wanting to hold them for all eternity in time and space for someone to stumble upon and wonder to themselves . . .
Who was this mind that thought enough about these things . . . these ponderances . . . to darst write them down upon scraps of paper . . .
"Dream a little.
but not too much.
Just enough to give a touch . . .
of splendor to the darkest day . . .
a bright edge to the cloud of grey."
Am I still that little girl pounding the keys of a toy typewriter, caught up in the dreams and fantasies that someday I might be . . . I just might be, or write, or say . . . words that another would find worthy to read or ponder? Can I paint pictures with my prose that others might want to gaze upon?
And . . . . even more importantly . . . could they possibly see what I see?
"The world is full of clocks that tick
and tock our lives away.
We cannot halt or hold the minutes
of every passing day . . . "
Just where I am right now . . . and how my wandering mind doth work. I do hope you sometimes enjoy the journey it takes you on.
There are oats about the house in my kitchen today . . . a few tasty tidbits afloat . . .
Have a wonderful Wednesday . . . remember not to forget that . . .
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And I do too!
PS - Friday Night Lights . . . I am hooked . . . line and sinker.