Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter


Day 114

It is easy to imagine there are invisible sprites on the garden swing on these sunny windy mornings when the seat gently sways backwards and forwards, and the plants under the seat have narrow paths drawn through them by unseen feet and legs. What are they talking about, those sprites, as they sun themselves on that seat and let themselves drift gently forwards and back by the wind? My shadow leans against the wall next to them, my back squarely in the sun, trying to catch as much early-morning warmth there is. I can always be found, even in the evenings, unerringly drawn to whatever sunny patch is left in the garden, in search of the natural heat of the sun, just to catch moments of it before it disappears again.

Every morning, every single morning, I wake up with the thought in my head that anything I’ve written is no good, that it needs to be discarded, that living would actually be easier if I didn’t have this constant craving to write, if I just put a line under it all and said I’m going to be normal now, just another human being who plods from day to day with no other thoughts in his head than just to make it through each day without examining anything that’s happened, without thinking what might be if this or that happened, what shape life could be. It’s a very tempting thought, not to be bound constantly by words spinning round in my head. THe thing is, though, that stopping writing wouldn’t stop those words or that spinning.

I am constantly searching for something different, something to cure the physical and mental aches. I found my old copper bracelet in a box marked Civilisation that I used to keep all my smoking paraphernalia in, and bent it tightly round my right wrist again in the hope that it might help me overcome the back problem and feel fit to play sport again. This morning I took it off because my back is aching more than last night. I need to have more faith. When I go back into the house I’ll put it back on again. If nothing else, I like the look of my wrists when they’re decorated. My forearms and wrists have always been the one part of my body that I like most. Thoughts are ironies.

The sprites are still swinging on the garden seat. I ask myself if they’re laughing at me or encouraging me. One day I’ll see them and talk to them in windy whispers.




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