Sunday Morning eeking into Sunday afternoon. Quiet stillness, warm air wrapping.
There is nothing special, extraordinary about this quiet space today but maybe that is precisely why its worth writing about.
I am not the type to “blog” its for the well spoken, grammatically correct person with time. Myself, nah – I just casually read the written words of those I hold dear on occasion, misuse commas and never can quite find the time to get my thoughts out of my bean. That is until this morning.
My love is to write with a mechanical pencil on moleskin paper. The words flow out of the graphite and and as a person who appreciates art without much talent herself, this is my art. I am not particularly good at it or particularly poetic but its the act of writing that I enjoy. Maybe you know how this feels? Maybe the days of type type type makes you miss the written act? Maybe you think I’m dated…
There is a problem, to write is a luxury in my current place in time. The computer however, is not. This green laptop is attached to my hip in a grungy patagonia bag that my sweetheart gave me years ago that is certainly growing some new form of infectious disease Im sure.
See I can be a bit of a purest – I wanted to have this view from the picture above (sadly, I was spoiled with it for years before now) The coffee at just the right temperature, the air cool and crisp. I wanted my pencil to make that sound, you know the one it makes when you write fast…
So in good pragmatic fashion, my life – im sure yours- there is no room for the purest ( which is just a nice word for snob to be honest). I feel that I must face my, dare I say – fear- of blogging. I will get over the fact that Im self conscious of my thoughts, grammar and nonlogical approach. I am going to write.
not in the perfect blue ridge setting with perfectly steamed java..
just here, in my quiet apartment on an ordinary sunday afternoon.