Found this online: what is rowing. I'm working on something, its a story about a boy but as usual I dont have the energy to go beyond the rough idea.
Its raining incessantly here - like the rest of the world. There's a bit of water logging at the edges of the street. They are planning to renovate Princes St. Huh?
I'm still out of anything meaningful to write about and I have enough spinayarnwithbitsandpeicesofurdaytomakepoliteconversation to do in real life, to keep on posting about it as well.
What's the point? I have no answers, just questions. The answers I am still looking for and working out. They come from everyone and everything you meet or find. Theres a path from Plath to Woolf to Frieda to Aviator to Herr Harry Haller to a Beautiful Mind. Moral of the story is, there is another way. There is a way. You can deal with them. You can even come back to them. maybe oneday, You can even make a tentative bridge of friendship, just dont test it too much.
I'm curious about why there was a traffic jam on Ferry Road at 5 in the morning. If I keep running down Ferry Road, will I eventually fall into the ocean? Today, I wish I could go to the beach and just sit there all day. I cant remember how it sounds: raindrops hitting the sea-skin. I remember the crunchy feeling of sand under lazy feet. I remember feeling drenched by the wet flying away on a wind. I remember the feeling of watching grey-white carbuncles growing on the rocks at the waters edge. Grossed out, but mesmerised. Theres a ringing silence, underlined by the whisper of the waves. You can hear your thoughts. If you listen carefully.
Another memory, hazy and fading at the edges: sitting out on the beach all night. A lighthouse. Some rocks. Talking about everything under moon. Amber lights, through rough green glasses, falling to the ground. Little red fires like fairy lights, glowing in the dark. Holidays at the seaside. Happy Families. Sun, Sand and Games.
I want to go someplaces. I want to see those strange birds they show on the telly, i want to visit the Berwick Islands, see if the waters is really that dark a blue. Like the night sky in day time. I want to go to the Highlands. I want to go to the Isle of Skye. I want to do that thing I have heard about where you go and watch whales migrating (I remember Joy talking about it). I want to see the Lake District. I want to go to Antarctica. Maybe someday. I've eaten out alone. I've watched a movie alone. Yet, actually going on a holiday alone sounds daunting. As does finding someone I could go with.
Also, found this about writing in scotland. There's a BBC website thing called 'where i live'. It gives you all kinds of local information. Its quite interesting.
Post Script:I've had the most magical morning. Is this runners euphoria? Or have I frozen into dementia? Woke up to BangBang and the KillBill OST and after that have been listening to one of my favourite songs almost at a stretch since 0500. That and running in the rain.
Its freezing cold, raining, the skies are silver grey, the trees shoot up in stark, clean, black lines, from the russet and yellow lined ground.
Why does liking someone make you feel so silly, or juvenile, or vulnerable? Depends on who you like and if they like you too, perhaps.
Finished Steppenwolf atlast. Feel a little sad everytime a book I like is over. Maybe this high is more from the ending of Steppenwolf. It is indeed like about a cure, rather than a disease. I'm back in Tender is the Night.
The point of this postscript was that I just wanted to add that I loved this post by WendyKat.
And some new snaps on Flickr!
Originally Posted at Prerona.