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More About Writing / 28 February 2013

I’m desperate to find my way into the new blog set up of DAO but can’t find my login. This will give me time to think, to consider what it is that I might have to say. For in truth there is nothing there that’s long enough to be a blog entry and one day the login key may appear and I will still be left vacant, with nothing left to say. I am aware of a theme that has been building, found in the simple, long term rush of writing. I have learned something old afresh. It is not solitary. It never was. I was never the boho type sitting lone and suffering in a garret, in a house, in a town, dark and full of blackness. It was never thus for me. There was always someone there. Granddad pinning stories to the shit house door. Mom and Dad receiving letters from Kingswood and Corley, schools hidden in the country. A chance to juxtapose red, and green and gold and brown in front of classmates whilst playing with autumn imagery. Arty endeavours, shared with friends and smoke and brandy, the scrabble board giving out the next word to use or draw whilst some of us consider sex. Always someone there. An enabler, an encourager, an appreciator, a grateful soul. A college chum, a co-op member, a competing writer, a scourge, a jealous type, a lover, a loser, a winner and a fighter. All gathered before the sheet. Expectant. Agog at its magic to fill itself with word. And the thing that hangs there, most brightly, takes our interest, holds us there forever in the ether of the phrase or sentence…. The thing….. Can only be described as happiness. And happiness broke through again last night when you said I was your friend. I had done something for you and now it must be returned. When all I thought I’d ever done was write those things that came simply and truly from the heart and if this were to be a gift it would always be a gift given freely - with joy. Just something I could do. I never even thought it was done for you and here you are now saying thank you, I see a drawing on the wall. It was done with pastels. Unreal colours. Inviting landscape. I stand on the road, heading for the mountains, wind blowing in my hair. Like I and it always did. Thrilled by escape. Imagination. I take a ride. I take my time. The fields roll by. Lazy hills. High grass. Brighter than summertime. The room is full of your odour. The scent you use. I leave you there. Goodbye. I leave at last with, only… words on the page I started out with. Turning it over. It is there again. Another page. Blank. Waiting to be fulfilled. And so it will be.