I think I’ll invent a saying: ‘Be careful what you blog about, it might all go pear-shaped’. As soon as I wrote yesterday that I was still flying and my wings were holding up, I could feel the wax start to soften, the feathers begin to droop. In here I can talk happily of playing dangerous games and kissing frogs, but out in Real Life, it’s all about: Where-have –I-left-my-phone? And the-new-washing-machine-finally-arrived-but-we-had-to-reorder-it. And whose-turn-is-it-to-cook? And this-place-is-a-tip,-I-can’t-find-anything and we’ve-run-out-of-Persil,-better-write-it-on-the-list. And I-think-I’m-coming-down-with-a-cold,-I’ll-take-a-couple-of-paracetamols-and-a-hot-toddy-
and-go-to-bed-with-a-hot-water-bottle,-I’ll-feel-better-in-the-morning (I don’t). And Where-DID-I-leave-my-bloody-phone?
I thought that setting the alarm earlier would help to force the sleep earlier in the night, but it hasn’t happened yet, still waking up, still getting progressively more exhausted in the day time, but now I need this extra time in the mornings or else the day starts later and later.
Reading magazines in the middle of the night, the front page of the new issue of Writing Magazine screams: ‘How to succeed in romance’ then the pay-off: ‘Mills & Boon authors give you their hot tips’ ‘And more:… Create a credible fantasy world…’
So I persist with this weird dichotomy (or trichotomy?) of life in my head/computer/blogland, and life-out-there. For a month now I’ve been wrestling with the idea of change, and whether anything can really change, or whether I’m condemned to return to the same old tracks, jumping from one mad fantasy to another or, even worse, living without even a fantasy for comfort.
So I enjoyed Kandamoist’s advice, but the simple fact is that I can’t even find any frogs to practise on, let alone knights.
Well, I’m going to be late again, I’m only half way there and I still have my meditation to do. It gets later and later. I think too much about the writing because I’m conscious of blogging.
Also in the night I thought: I made a kind of resolution to submit a poem or story somewhere every month of the year, and if I don’t do that today, already I’ve broken it, fallen at the first fence.
The wind howls and rattles the windows. The waning moon is out there somewhere, but it’s gone shy now, no longer watching me, grinning at me, but keeping out of the way.
And it’s February tomorrow. I hate February. I say this every year, but it doesn’t become any less true.