Random observations
I often think of moments that I would like to record and rarely do. This is my first attempt in a while.
A young child in a buggy was heading my way. In his right hand the empty cardboard box of a small cadbury Easter egg. In his left was the whole chocolate egg. His eyes went from one to the other and as we passed I sensed that he had decided the box was more interesting. It made me smile. If the egg was discarded I could not hear the result due to traffic.
Starting a new book especially a book that I did not select. There is a feeling of hope and potential dissappointment as I tentatively turn the first pages. This book, however, has an advantage. I like texture in my books, I like to feel I am reading something that had been written with pen and ink. My ink pens have been used recently for the first time in many months. Last week I posted two letters and as they slipped behind the red ironwork maw I wondered if it would be raining when the terminal postman handled them. Rain would make the ink run, would smudge the address and condemn my missive to a strange little cart in the post office sorting rooms.
This new book has thick cream pages but they glow white because the edges of the paper are black. Tiny flecks of ink balance on the edge of each sheet and the sum of their presence is a warm layer of jet facing me as I lay on my pillow. What lies behind that wall?
The unique sweetness of a ripe naval orange on the tongue and the aerosoled oil from the zest in the air.
Gentle incense and a buddhist prayer in the room, church bells outside marking the half hour.
Good garlicky hummous.
A young child in a buggy was heading my way. In his right hand the empty cardboard box of a small cadbury Easter egg. In his left was the whole chocolate egg. His eyes went from one to the other and as we passed I sensed that he had decided the box was more interesting. It made me smile. If the egg was discarded I could not hear the result due to traffic.
Starting a new book especially a book that I did not select. There is a feeling of hope and potential dissappointment as I tentatively turn the first pages. This book, however, has an advantage. I like texture in my books, I like to feel I am reading something that had been written with pen and ink. My ink pens have been used recently for the first time in many months. Last week I posted two letters and as they slipped behind the red ironwork maw I wondered if it would be raining when the terminal postman handled them. Rain would make the ink run, would smudge the address and condemn my missive to a strange little cart in the post office sorting rooms.
This new book has thick cream pages but they glow white because the edges of the paper are black. Tiny flecks of ink balance on the edge of each sheet and the sum of their presence is a warm layer of jet facing me as I lay on my pillow. What lies behind that wall?
The unique sweetness of a ripe naval orange on the tongue and the aerosoled oil from the zest in the air.
Gentle incense and a buddhist prayer in the room, church bells outside marking the half hour.
Good garlicky hummous.