Whimsical, dreamy, off with the fairies – you’re plain odd, so say all of them! You embrace odd; it’s a description you've always taken pride in. You've mastered signals and dances with sensory experiences. Whenever an opportunity arises you listen at corners to the perceptions your family and friends think of you – it’s not all an illusion, but there’s no sign of what you really think. It’s all fairy tale stuff.
You no longer want to write of rosebud lips, honey-oatmeal drop scones, bergamot oil, sassafras bark and sugar coated swallows. And there’ll be no more writing of riding a bicycle to Sconset, to dig up the thousand-year box, that contains old associations and loose ends. But you know the moment you write this, it’s not true. You will write dreamscapes, again, and again, in time.
For today you want to write about the here and now. It won’t be easy but the very idea of writing live is freeing. You realise you’re sitting with a straight back, and your tummy is turned in, your shoulders are pulled back and your chest is stretched. You can hear Malcolm talking on the phone. Malcolm is almost 60 - he is always loud and irreverent. Malcolm talks about food the way an 18 year old boasts about sex. There’s no hello from Malcolm when you walk into the office, instead, there’s should we go out for lunch today? He just hung up the phone and now he’s thumping on his keyboard; typing doesn't come easy to Malcolm.
You lift your feet onto the base of your chair, and immediately you feel relief in your knees. With the tip of your tongue you poke at a lump at the base of a tooth that you know needs drilling and filling. You frown tightly and decide to get up and go to the toilet. The act of leaving the keyboard and doing something else, even if it’s going to the loo will take your mind off the lump-tooth-drill.
While in the bathroom you take a moment to look at yourself. The first thing you notice is the raccoon eyes. Sleep has not been your friend this year, and it’s showing. Instead of feeling bad about yourself you move your attention to the amber pendant you’re wearing. Gordon gave you a matching set of amber earrings and pendant when you were together. You try to remember if it was a birthday present, or a Christmas present or a present just for present sake. Gordon was generous. You wonder why you split up and quickly it comes back to you – Gordon wasn't great with children; you have three. The earrings are gone now, they were stolen. You’re glad that you still have the pendant and the Italian silver chain it hangs from. You tell yourself that nothing is always all bad, and you return to your desk.
It’s almost time to pack up and go home. You remind yourself that on the way home you need to stop at the supermarket and buy a bread roll and a bottle of coke zero. The roll is to go with the soup in the fridge. Yesterday, you made a pot of beef and vegetable soup with a ton of chilli. Bell says that soup isn't a meal, and you tend to agree so tonight you’re adding the roll to round out the meal.
You think about the yoga class you’re going to tonight – you hope it’s good, and when you’re walking home after it, you’re experiencing every part of you – including the painted flowers.