Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter


Day 96

Night sweats. Weird dreams. Imagining something’s happened which hasn’t actually happened yet.

I pondered any number of ways to start this morning. Instead, I have another fragmentary. Or because.

As always, I kissed the top of M’s head before coming out here to the study. She asked me why I sniffed her hair, and I said because its scent makes me feel like I’ve come home. She said it made her feel as if she smelled like an old house. That was not the intention, I said whilst laughing that romance was obviously dead. Just goes to show how subjective reading and writing can be. That’s the beauty of it.

I had any number of Zoom and phone calls at work yesterday. Without exception, the people I spoke to were asking my views on what was going on in the Third Sector, and without exception, they were grateful for my views and opinions and pointers, and made me feel I was really contributing something to what they wanted to achieve and to the sector as a whole. One of them even said “I knew just speaking to you would help.” If that’s not job satisfaction for me, I don’t know what could be, and I am immensely grateful to all of them (and everyone I deal with every day) for their respect and kindnesses.

I met Dave Mann through his son J, whom I played cricket with at Stradbroke. Dave became a good friend, although infrequently seen because he’s probably even more nomadic than I am. Not only is he a genius comic song writer and performer, but he also has a wonderfully eclectic taste in music, which he puts into weekly music shows which you should listen to. Dave suggested we might do a punk show together, so we scheduled a Zoom call for 6pm yesterday, both of us thinking that, as I’d sent him my list of songs already, we’d be done by 6:30. We ended up talking for over 2 hours, not just about the music, not just about things associated with the music, but just about everything, and, like every good radio guest, I managed to get him, the host, to talk about himself – he’ll probably edit those bits out, modest human that he is. We decided we’re going to have to meet up in London soon, because we actually have far more in common than we thought we did. We also concluded that it was probably a good thing we hadn’t spent our lives living close to each other as we’d probably have got into a lot of trouble together. Once he’s put the show up, I’ll spread the word on my social media. It was a blast, and another thing to be grateful for yesterday.

K, one of my daughters, put together a writing playlist she shared with us last week. I’m writing this to that music, and am loving it.

It’s the little things. Maybe the definition of a fragmentary (which is obviously my invented word of the year, and I’m claiming the copyright on it) should be – a container of little thoughts and happinesses.




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1 Comment

  1. Ren Powell

    7th April 2022 at 07:53

    Oh! I don’t know. There is a lot of romance in old houses and home. Certainly in savoring.
    So much love. So much beauty.

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