Sweethearts, what can I say? You don’t know what you are being spared.
I will start posts only to be interrupted. Which is fine. Doesn’t matter. Hours later returning to them I am so happy I never got to press ‘publish’. What the hell was all that about? I do write some truly incomprehensible stuff. Maybe I should employ a finely meshed sieve to filter a momentary fallout. A bit like getting rid of lumps when making Sauce Bechamel (white by another name).
The only reason I am writing this minute because I need a garden. Urgently. Let’s leave aside that I love all things soil, growing, weeds and dandelions: I am getting more and more disenchanted with the world of print. Print which has dominated my life before I could even read. I read on a wide spectrum of genres. Both for professional and private purposes. But more and more – a couple of hundred pages in – I feel like flinging the matter into the next corner. Obviously I’d never do that to a book. I just close it. An image of the glutton who has overeaten does come to mind. Saturated to the point of nausea.
It’s disconcerting. I visit some of my old friends on the shelves with joy and recognition. Yet, with new stuff coming into my focus I am overcome with a certain ennui. If someone had forecast this as recently as a couple of years ago I would have laughed in disbelief.
Yes, so I need a garden, a field. Soil. Something to grow. Something solid. Something to stick a spade and fork into.