Thirteen Things in a Writer’s Day (This Writer / This Day)

1. Stay in bed awhile after waking, reading a novel; get up a bit late.

2. After getting up, always a flask of black coffee to start the morning – NOT instant. (Never instant!)

3. Straight from breakfast to computer; get caught there for hours, writing poems and an article, posting a photo.

4. Loud knock on door. Man to check smoke alarm. Apologise for being still in pyjamas; turn it into mildly jokey remark, pretending insouciance. 

5. Close door to room where cat is sleeping, so smoke alarm man can’t accidentally let her outside, about which I am unapologetically paranoid. (In truth she is fast asleep.)

6. (Shutting gate after horse has bolted) decide to shower and change into actual day wear before getting lunch.

7. Naked daily witchy ritual between shower and dressing (brief; got it down pat after many moons of regular practice).

8. Very late lunch, while reading more of the novel.

9. Do dishes from last night and today-so-far. Feel virtuous.

10. Decide bed-making can wait until later.

11. Put out garbage bins. Discover, while doing so, huge dog shit on front lawn (I do not have a dog). Decide to leave it for now and pretend I don’t know it’s there; maybe nice, kind lawn-mowing man will deal with it next time he’s here.

12. Finally remember, guiltily, to open door to cat’s room, thankful she’s still asleep.

13. At last settle back at computer. Check mail; nothing yet from printer to say my books are ready. WHY did I tell her I didn’t need them until October? Do not jump up and down and scream. Write something. (This something.) Interruptions: squawking cat waking up and demanding attention, plus very close claps of thunder. Switch everything off and lie down with cat and novel.

Written for Thursday Thirteen for 31 August 2023.

Night Owl

Some people love the peace,

they say, of early mornings. I

settle into myself in the hush

of deepest night, on this hilltop

in this quiet neighbourhood

of this small country town,

when the lights in all the other 

houses in the street turn off

and I’m surrounded by sleep.

I like being the only one awake

in the stillness, in which my mind

unrolls and stretches free, unimpeded

and unobserved. I own the space

in those moments and hours. The very

air becomes mine, in the beautiful silence.

Reaction

Stop.

Flinch.

Startle.

Cringe and shrink.

Something is triggered –

but not always to full recall.

The mind can shut things off. Not so

the animal self,

the body:

muscle,

bone,

blood.

Written in response to Friday Writings #91: Muscle Memory at Poets and Storytellers United, using the fib (fibbonacci) form both normally and reversed.