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Practise, practise

I can't write today. My brain is tired and achy. I need some mental exercise. I'll walk to the local cyber caff. Walking will get the blood flowing into my brain cells and give them a chance to ignite some connected thoughts.

The caff is on the other side of the hill and as I walk this familiar route disparate thoughts about creative writing bubble to the surface. I need to read more novels and poetry. I nearly always find this type of reading stimulating. I remember my book shelf at home; Photomontage, Megalopolis, books on photography and cities, interesting, but I need to read some well written stories. I'll make an effort to read more novels and put a poetry book on my xmas list. 

An animal runs across the road, two children jump up and down pointing and waving their hands, they too have recognised it as a fox. Maybe I can make a story or poem out of this incident. Stories are driven by events and incidents. 

George died this morning, haven't heard from him in years. The cancer took hi m over. A bit of my youth, an era dies with him. Do you remember his guitar gently weeps, I hum the tune to my self, I look at the world and notice it is turning, from every mistake surely we must be learning. Funny how you can remember a rhyme. Like a child.

I pop into the shop that sells my photographs. Martin says the last sold very quickly. Jean, a local historian, is beginning a new book on the area, and is photocopying some documents. She says she would like to use some of my images in the book. That feels good. Maybe one day I will write something imaginative and stimulating about the city.

I walk a little further down the street to the cafe and order morning tea and book a computer and find a seat near the window overlooking the quiet street. I can use the small portable computer anywhere in the cafe, and I connect to the internet without having to attach wires. I pour some milk and tea and spread some butter on my tea cake, that tastes good. 

A chink of sun is creating a pattern of reversed words on the wooden floor - e-c-a-p-S-r-e-p-y-H, something like escape, no it's back to front, I type the letters into the google search engine h-y-p-e-r-s-p-a-c-e, hyperspace. I get 88,000 results. One of the sites says, 'Hyperspace; Searching for Extra Dimensions; Parallel Universes: The Role of the Observer; Magic windows...  I'll ask Zircon why she called the cafe HyperSpace. Maybe I'll also ask her why she is called Zircon, the oldest mineral on earth. I wonder what I am doing here. 

That's the trouble with virtual reality, it takes you to all s orts of fascinating places, but you begin to feel lost very quickly, unless you have a definite route you want to follow. Same with reality I suppose, just not so obvious. I type that into an email to my self, with the subject heading, 'Stay Focussed',  and send it off. That will be a little something I remember from the day, I also type in, we need to be creative each day, to show a trace of our existence. That will be something to ponder on. 

My 30 minutes with the computer are up and it's time to head back to work, and try and write a good story. Practise. Practise. 

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