"Life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans." JL

The time-frame changes indiscriminately. Either early dawn, or 3 am, or mid-morning, it makes little difference. I make no contribution to this unscheduled alarm. I wake in the midst of a sentence, scene, or half finished narrative that dances seductively behind my eyes and leaks through recall. Semi-consciousness is not necessarily a good state to record inspiration.

I persevere. I am clumsy in the morning. Stiffened joints that have me walking into things, stepping on the cat, banging into doors. 3 am is the worst. The light required for safe passage has been known to dissipate the driving force of the muse. Once out of bed (no mean feat in itself), I endeavour to grasp the thin thread and hope that by writing it down, the rich offering now held captive in dream state, will return to the surface. For I am now ready and alert to seek and plunder its treasures. To finally write the story that is waiting patiently to be told.

"She had heard this story. One night she had slipped quietly into the room to bring the murmur of their voices closer to her ears."

The story remains. I can almost touch it.

But lethargy is a humidity of the spirit and mine is like syrup, heavy and weighing me down. I have copious notes and texts and narratives, all voices sharing the load, all voices waiting to be recorded into my typed files. Ready for immersion. I have sentences, phrases, thoughts, concepts and ideas, floating in the ether of brain-space. They latch on to read bits of news, stories, anecdotes. They lead me into portals of fantasy where I can be seen wandering the road muttering to myself like some crazy woman in conversation with the three other women inside her head ... my head.

What I seem to lack is the discipline to just get it done. Another cup of tea. Oh, time for a wine. What's there to eat? Look at that, three baby chicks.

Life is interrupting my working process. Not me, I would if I could ... life itself seems to have other plans for my day ......


Research for today - the stations of the cross.

IN case you haven't yet realised I am not Catholic and so I have no idea what is meant by each of the stations. Is there a hidden text that being uninitiated I am unaware of? Other than the literal explanation discovered via Google, I still don't really understand. What I get is his journey to the hill for crucifixion: falling, getting help, getting his face wiped, meeting up with his mother, falling .....


What I was hoping for was a 14 stage journey towards death. A metaphor, an analogy, something that held greater meaning. I was thinking that Mary's final walk from Sainte Baume to Maximin might potentially replicate the stages listed. I could utilise this connection to talk about stages towards death. But the Christians offer me no light. I will check out the Buddhists and re-familiarise myself with The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying. I will also re-read the myths about Persephone and Demeter as well as Orpheus.

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