I have been sick for DAAAAAYEEES. About three so far. You’d think with all this bed time I would be crankin out numerous pages on my book, novel whatever it is- work/project- thingamawritingjig. I haven’t.
I took a walk today to clear my head and to hopefully sweat some of this sick out. I’ve been in my head so much lately I wanted to try and clear it. Still coupled by feeling sick and a little depressed. I couldn’t quite feel better. I was wearing my headphones. I coughed and it got the attention of a man slowly walking up a slanted driveway. He turned and smiled at me and moved his lips in a speech that I couldn’t hear. He was a black man, older, fifties maybe, and he was dressed comfortably in black pressed pants with a crease in the front, down each leg and a red sweater that was loose but semi-casual. I removed my headphones and asked him what he said. He asked me how I was doing today. I said, alright I have a cold.
Ah-he says waving his hand at me- yor better off than I am.
What’s the matter? I asked
Oh- he said, his voice a bit strained and he placed his hand on his hip-I got a shot- he said again pressing on his hip- I got cancer.
I’m sorry. I said.
You look healthy, he said again with a smile.
Yep, just a cold.
Ah- he said again waving at me with a large bowed arm- that’s nothing! You can walk that off.
That’s what I’m doing.-I said.
Then a man came up to speak to him and he turned away and I put my earplugs back in my ears and kept walking.
There’s been writing but no writing. I think that the idea I have behind my book is some need to get it done so I can try to get it published, so that I can say I’m a writer, and get paid to be a writer. I think I need to stop this mind set as I feel it is pretty self-destructive. It takes away every other action of writing and makes every other moment seem meaningless and like I’m wasting the time I’ve taken from working at a “normal” job. ( I use normal loosely I don’t know a better adjective that describes what I mean personally.) Really I have to allow myself to write as much as possible in as many ways and call it writing every time. I mean, literally it is writing. I feel warped. I guess this could be my time to hone my skills or find my voice or whatever. Truly I should just stop thinking all together.
What all this means is there isn’t much progress past section 13 but hey I wrote a few reviews on Joy Division if you wanna check that thought provoking piece out! Please insert sarcastic tonality. Oh and I spent an hour or so at the park, swinging, listening to music, mostly David Bowie and thought of all the different colors of the changing leaves:
Pumpkin, lime, yellow, plum, burgundy, salmon, pink, mustard, green, gold, bergermot, magenta and peach- all the colors rising and blending toward the blue sky bright in the afternoon sun. Bright through clouds that look like bits of cotton that were used to blot up dark ink.
ha ha- like how I quoted myself? Is berergmot considered a color or just a scent? can citrus be a color? If so would it be yellow, green or orange? This is what happens to people who already spend to much time alone on top of being stuck in bed with a cold.