stream-of-consciousness writing 17/1/12

its supposed to be creative, writing
I can hear the trains, no it’s traffic. I have my eyes closed and am wondering if the keys are coming out right… I never learnt to type properly. it’s all just memory, my fingers remembering the way, talking in quiet taps. eyes open now. yellow pikachu banana the fridge hissing, fairy lights, a click in the bathroom, I’m thinking about it too much trying to make,

I love you too my Joshie.

concentrate. the thoughts passing, sensory. sounds and colours and things changing. it’s funny waiting for something profound to arrive. this is the first stream of consciousness writing I’ve done in a while. write it. write everyday. you pick out a word or a thought from it all and go with just that. I can’t stop editing as I go though. I am too caught up on the fact that I have to go to bed but I want to stay up, finish tomorrows errands, I am so impatient with myself! I should slow down and enjoy the process but maybe I should write later, will find something better grass and trampolines were all we needd then. I want to go to the seaside. I haven’t swam all summer, and my legs are hairy like spider. I keep worrying that this won’t be interesting – should I edit again? I like the way he plays to me. eyes shut again. J is reading a book. I can hear a siren and the rush of air moving around something big and urgent and there are slow moving tyres too, like wetpaint against the road. he sighs. the siren is getting softer now. a car charging on. each particle moving tells a story.

I always looked for stories in the textures of things around me, reading stains and scuff marks as a talley: of people who lived or important events, the number of times I have been happy. I’m thinking of a burrow now, or more of the way that animals sometimes move the earth about and the waves and the wind and how everything leaves a trace,

but its about scale and time: local, global, short, long. the rhythm of our house (space – object – space, enduring, shuffling, flighty) tells its own small story within an allotment, neat or not so, between so many others. it is all a wave crashing again over the beach, the clouds changing, expanding, drifting, a mark left by an insect, crawling up a tree somewhere.

I often wonder about the cognizance of insects…

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