Nov 152017

When I write – normally – I write slow and considered words. I rehearse, contemplate and conjugate to turn my offering over and over until it is tempered. But I cannot seem to write at the moment. There is no channel, as if I am standing within a familiar tunnel, but the exit has become a wall.

There are lots of reasons for this. New job. Sixteen month old toddler. Associated sleeplessness. But I feel as if these are only circumstantial to the truth, and the truth is that I don’t have any tongue-polished words to say right now. I am full of mis-understanding and rigorous drift towards unspeech. Or I just don’t understand enough.

I am sitting as I write this in a cafe in the National Maritime Museum opposite the Cutty Sark in London and the waitress smiles at a child, both of them momentarily lit by the joy of an autumn afternoon. Outside, heavy yellow leaves lie on the Thames and people search for treasure on the wet sands. We don’t seem to encapsulate the industrial magnitude of wrongness that logic can only suggest that we live by, that’s what constantly surprises me. In moments like this, we seem wonderful.

I can’t stop thinking though – just for example – about mud. Soil in crumbs like darkest freshest earth bread. And the fact – evidenced by findings like this one – that in this cafe gentle we are wearing clothes and eating foods that human imagining has made not with but against the mud. That’s just what we do today. And I am constantly befuddled and muddled, distracted and bewildered by the profound juxtaposition between our day to day accidental beauty and the error in calculation that was made somewhere in the machine of us by which we think we can live alone.

These are my thoughts today. How to do it? I still want the possibility of being breathless from the love of a shaggy jacketed old lady eating pie and the cut and thrust of the dirty river. And myself, eating more than I need, taking more than I should.

We are within an enigma that is moving to unfunction, that is about to topple like the towers my son is obsessed with building and destroying. There are no polished words to say and because of this the new blog project is to write every day and publish what I can, however ragged, strange and tumultuous. That is all.

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