I'm reading a beautiful book, a tragic love story. Two loves kept apart by false accusations, and war. The writing is gorgeous, detailed. I can't comprehend that it is a work of fiction, of the power of the mind that created this tale with all it's intricacy and fleshiness. How? It is like a magical trick I can't understand. I try to write and all I can come up with is the chitter chatter of my daily life. A simplistic print of the light breeziness of my mind, the preoccupations of an ordinary life. I like to think that there are epic tales hidden beneath the surface and I just don't know how right now to convert them into words on a page. They are shadows out of my reach. Tropical fish not succumbing to my ill chosen bait. Swirling coloured forms slipping through the web of my cantations. I try to find the words, or the characters, the images that might describe how I perceive the world, but I soon grow tired, find distractions to maneuver me away from their pursuit. Often I'll just go lie down after these attempted bursts of activity and give myself an orgasm instead because that's easier, and pleasurable and instant. But that's hardly going to bring about social justice now is it!? I lack the perseverance to create works of meaning. Or is it indecision. What is it that I want to say? What is so important that I should dedicate hours to creating a suitable metaphor that will shed light on its significance? I'm procrastinating right now by lamenting my lack of skill instead of answering those difficult life questions! How easily we wile away the hours with distractions instead of facing the abyss. Whatever that abyss might be. Instead we'll hook ourselves up to the great Apple and the master Google or even the bewitching sugar and distract the very life out of ourselves. I am guilty of it, of turning away from old school pleasures earned the hard way to the comfort of the device or a short lasting sugar high. On another topic, severe weather here in my city, flood warnings. Makes me feel vulnerable. Coupled with a nagging urgency. That whispering in my ear, now, now, now is the time. I have to stop turning away from finding meaning in my life, from finding my field of work. I don't want to be a professional administrator no matter how good I am at it! Like other aspects of life, my creative work will only find shape through repetition, practice. Once upon a time I could only run one or two kilometres, now I run half marathons! It took much sweat and consistency to get me there. I must have patience, and enjoy this journey into a new skill, take pride and pleasure in this blog which is just a first step in learning a whole new world. I'm hard on myself sometimes, it's quite pointless. Lights are flickering here, from the wild weather, might lose power soon, fall into darkness. Might be good for me, my eyes are sore from staring at televisions and other glowing things. Nobody in this country copes well with being cooped up by the weather for too long. We are unaccustomed to it.
I've chased my tail here for long enough, its time to return to the book that inspired this entry, and then towards sleep.