Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

Nobody seems to read anymore.

We glance at eye-catching newspaper headlines and take it for granted that the news that follows is true and properly reported on, aware that we can never know for certain how true the reporting is, how unbiased it is.

We seek out affirmations in neat square blocks, with a wordcount of 15 expressed on a neat little background with a bold clear font.

Our scriptures are verses from apps, shared by and for those who care to take the word.

Our children and pets are memes in photos.

Our personal news is a series of photos from travel and celebrations, edited and brushed. Our opinions are stamped out on a keyboard in shorthand with emoji’s, half-arsed, unvalidated, unresearched.

It’s no wonder that nobody reads anything anymore.

The question is why? Are we all rushing about that we don’t make time to sit down for a cup of coffee and actually read? Or have we become infatuated with fast moving pixels and digital images that our brains continue to seek out a lazier form of education? I am hyper-aware of the latter, given how guilty I am too, of skipping over long Instagram posts, not bothering to read the news (although, I don’t watch it either and am not a fan of video reporting either to be honest.)

And if we are looking for an answer to this question, does a solution lie in the world of multitasking where we can listen to news/opinions/affirmation/self help articles in the form of podcasts while commuting/exercising?

On the other hand, in this age, there seems to be so much more to read that we find we start drawing lines in how much time we allocate for the veritable flood of information that washes up at our feet every minute of the day.

The reason I ask this, is I have found patches of time recently where I find myself wanting to write. Something. Anything. There is obviously a modern-day need for me to share and receive gratification for my endeavours because I have shamefully become addicted to it and because I’m a #grandstander 😉 in an attempt to boost my self esteem. And oh, yes, I do actually have a dream to be able actually write a book that is published. Clearly, though, an assembly of prosaic short writings filled with sunlight and gin-hour desires and little intent or actual impact is the reason I have a real job, and I continue to hang on the coattails of a virtual group of writers, aspiring to be a ‘writer’.

And so I do.

I write.

Phone-camera photos taken out and about become a source of inspiration to scribble something that I want to share, but I’ve moved beyond the diary-like scribblings for personal consumption and feel like I need to achieve something, every time. And by ‘achieve something’ I really mean ‘seek acknowledgment for’.

Needless to say, these are purely self-absorbed musings, and I’m attempting to validate a recent set of writings that I feel I want to include on this space. At the end of the day, this is my space to do with it what I want.

The month of January has been particularly taxing on my mental health. All of the stress is purely derived from my work space, so perhaps these musings and writings are secretly emerging from a desire to change my source of income and career path. All the while knowing deep down that nobody in their right mind will pay me to write. All the while knowing that I personally lack the courage and conviction to make the change, and hence my continuous return to mundane blog writings to alleviate the angst.

And perhaps, one day, this space will become the origins of something worth publishing.

At the end of the day, societal expectations and norms should not dictate what I want to do with my life. I am privileged to have this way of expression. And so let me make use of it.

Below is a recent piece I am hoping to submit to a e-zine for a spring edition. The theme is ‘chaos’, something that truly invokes an entire dictionary of negativity in my mind. However, the editor/publisher who hosts the group of writers and artists seems to be looking for the beauty of chaos. Does this work?

Her voice moves between rooms like a scented whisper on the twilit horizon. Like the wineglass that was lost, found, and displaced more and more as the evening wore on, she’s always searched for. And she wanders between rooms seeking out the grazed knee to clean up and bandage, to still the tempestuous arguments between the sports fans arguing over new rugby rules, topping up wine glasses and snorting a giggle into her own if she manages to be in its possession. She fluffs baby potatoes doused in buttery parsley sauce in the kitchen, she changes the playlist and turns down the volume as she glides on bare feet to the patio, touching the cheek of her smiling son, his eyes lit up with a sugary glaze of happiness. A lingering masculine scent wafts into her nose as a taut arm snakes around her waist; a seductive whisper of adoration in her ear, briefly before she extricates herself to light the candles and top of the punch-bowl. Childish shrieks of delight race across the lush garden as the young ones take turns streaking naked under the sprinkler, arcs of flying water catching the light, the earth becoming a little more muddy by the second, and dirty paws and feet begin to traipse sand onto the gleaming indoor tiles. Little clothes lie around scattered on couches and chairs, handbags lie open revealing cell-phones, dirty tissues, lipsticks, purses. The setting sun is gold, stretching her fingertips across herbaceous borders and florid pink flowers, a riot of colour clashing with the heady scent of the days end. Plates are distributed, piled high with all the food groups, neither inclined to be wasteful or delicate in flavour. The music is loud again, did the teenagers change the playlist? A table now, glasses, candles, plates, arms reaching across for the jugs of water, bottles of wine, a fresh serving of soul-filling food. A whisper in the ear of a neighbour, a shriek of laughter, an exhausted toddler straddling her mammas lap as mamma tries to fork food between her red lips. The night time garden sounds begin to bubble through the dinner cacophony: a frog below the pond reeds bellowing for his mate, an annoying mosquito buzzing in the ear of a sleeping dog. An owl hoots, despite the absence of garden quiet. Soggy ice cream cones lie discarded by the side tables, tiny demi-tasse cups empty but for the lingering scent of black coffee, little bodies curled into one another on the couches sleepily gazing at flickering images on the tv, teenagers stretched on the floor gazing into phones. Her wine glass now packed into the dishwasher, the arms whooshing gently, she quietly creates calm in her kingdom with soft piano tunes on a playlist and soft murmuring voices of her friends dispelling the luxurious chaos of the afternoon.

How do you manage creative time? If you’re fortunate to have the outlet that is. Certainly not everyone is in the same situation as me, but I am curious. Should I keep these in my own space? Or am I allowed to share them?

As usual, my thoughts are also with you as finish up these lines. I really should reach out personally to check in, so if my name reaches your phone screen today, let me know you’re doing okay?

Love and January kisses,

Me.

Xxx