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Writing this morning, every morning. A cup of coffee arrives, it's 06:57. I sit back and sip, recollecting this desire to just write something, anything, each day, just a page, sometimes more. A date on the top, a time. Don't know why. So I wonder. For a long time I tried different places, cafes, hotels, for this writing, they all work in different ways, but this hotel /cafe is what I've dreamt about for years, and then it came about not long ago, and here I am living a dream. I feel I can settle here for an hour a day, and come back to the writings tomorrow. I'll look back at a previous notebook, and tend to riff off that a little. The words and thoughts overlap for a while. I'll finish riffing off the old notebook in a few pages, a few days, of the new notebook, sometimes I'm halfway through the new notebook before the old one is put on the shelf. In between I read this and that, make some notes on this iPhone, listen to some podcasts, these become part of the mix of writings. Not quite understanding, not  quite knowing. Always working towards understanding and knowing, and never quite getting there. This churning, the decay, this pleasure, becomes what it's all about.

But I say to myself I do know and do understand and do make sense of my everyday life. Do I need to ask the unanswerable question about what I don't understand or don't know? Nope. So what's this writing and thinking about? It's probably about reality. This elusive reality, something to do with experiencing. A glass of water, some ice in it, I know it will be cold to my touch, my fingers, a sip, yes, it's true. I see a picture of a drink with ice in it on the side of the bar, it appears to have the attributes of the glass in front of me, but I don't know, and I probably won't or don't want to find out. I'm not inspired to go and ask for a version of the glass and ice I see in the photograph.

Another day, another time, photographs through the day, affecting me in different ways. I rarely record the affects of the day. In  a way I avoid thinking too much about what I don't know. So much happens around me, just sitting here, in the hotel, so much I don't know; people passing by, noises, music, and vague thoughts and feelings that I don't quite stay with for long. Reality is elusive.

I linger with these thoughts for a few minutes, a mood that I'm not quite conscious of is bubbling, I stay with this writing / thinking to try and hold this feeling in a moment. It seems the feeling is just about 'holding', holding on to some thing, lightly holding on, and letting go, seeing that reality float away, I'm left with a sense of that  feeling, which feels okay.

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