Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Life, Poetry, Writing

Day 322

I started writing another poem in my head earlier, but the day has been so relentless, I have forgotten even the few short words that made up the first sentence. Perhaps it will come back to me when I’ve calmed down a little. The good thing is that I walked alot yesterday, and I’ve walked a lot today. And I’m still doing the press-ups every morning. But it’s not really what I want to write about. I’d rather not write about myself at all, but create something new. And today I’m permanently – probably the 7 miles I walked, and the more than yesterday.

Last night, as I walked up the hill along the road that cuts through the Heath, at about half past eleven, desperate to get home before midnight so that I could get the blog up at least on the day on which it needed to go up to still count as having blogged every day, I started talking to myself, out loud, my thoughts running away out through my mouth. And I was thinking about how everyone who cares for me is always telling me to make time for myself, and I thought, out loud, that this walk up here, in the dark, the wind blowing, the leaves turning, the trees making the lights flicker and shimmer, that this time, this walk, was my own time. No-one about, no people to avoid or circumnavigate, no traffic, nothing. It was cold and it was glorious, and I was warm, in this cocoon of thought and exercise, and everything felt good.

I wish I could remember the line from the unwritten poem.

I will organise myself properly this weekend. There is still a lot of stuff floating around in this new/old bedroom office that needs to find its place, the drawers and shelves in this tiny desk still mostly empty because there’s just not been occasion or time to put the things in there that belong in there. And I need to clear the table in the kitchen, at least the area where I sit because that’s just over-run with stuff as well, bits of paper that need actioning, objects that need putting either back where they belong (like into the toolbox), or that need a place finding for them. That’s what life is, really, just moving objects from one place to another until they find the space that was always meant for them.

I do know there’s a poem started somewhere about the museums of our life, but I’m not ready to finish that one yet. And it wasn’t the one my brain started writing this morning. Ah, it’s just come back to me, as I sit here, re-seeing where I was when I thought of it, and what I was doing when I thought of it. I’m not about to write it, but the message it will convey is that drinking coffee again has made me feel like I’ve been asleep for the past fourteen years, and living life at about a third of the pace at which I should have been living it. There, now that I’ve written down the thought and the words, I can let them do their work inside my head, because I won’t forget them now, won’t be able to forget them.

I think the threads are being gathered up and drawn together now, in Aggie, with 6 weeks of writing left. Twelve more days, and she’ll be purged from each day on which I have written her on this page. It will be interesting to see if I will have the will to finish her on time. I’d better.




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