satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
Wholefood Merchants in Ferntree Gully has a café attached to the 'supermarket', and serves quite nice food, even if the menu changes on a whim, and every single thing I've ever liked there eventually gets supplanted by something containing wheat, quinoa, eggplant, or something I simply loathe.
I like to go there for brunch, to read, to shop, to browse, and sometimes to write. For that, I go in the non-rush times from 9.30-11.30am, and 1.30-4pm.
The café has a large water feature that's treated as a wishing well. It's a low, square pool of water, with a metal sculpture acting as waterfall.
Today, I gave a two year old three ten cent pieces to throw into the 'wish' for me, as she'd already emptied her mother's purse of all silver, and one gold coin ("Go all out, and make it a big wish!").
Whatever the poppet wished for, shortly afterwards, I finished the short story I've been mucking about with, and decided to have another crack at the idea of a water spirit living in the water feature. Two aborted short stories, and this time, a poem.
Well, that came tumbling out of me, and I thought I'd never find an end to it. I returned, yet again, to the idea of a female discovering she has a link to the water spirits.
So, thanks little girl, whatever your wish was. I feared that poetry had left me.
I'm so unsure of myself re poetry that I'll need to give a couple of people a look, and then I'll be brave and send it somewhere.
I have grave doubts about this. Every time I access Star*Line, the journal of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, I find 80% of the poems inaccessible. I just don't get them. And the remaining 20% are so sophisticated that I quail before their cleverness.
This poem I've just first drafted is very simple, and just says it. No obscurity, no high-falutin'. Both concepts are my enemy. Can't be doing with high-falutin' poems.
Anyway, maybe there's a home for it somewhere, once it's been tidied up. It would be nice to have one publication to my belt this year.
As for the short story, I'll also run that by a couple of likely suspects. And then see if the competition I aimed for is still open. I had an uneasy conversation with my muse on this story.
Satya: Here's the criteria: X, Y, two Z's, and a K.
Muse: Hmmm.... While you're in the bath tonight, riff on it to PizzaBoy.
Satya: But that's just silly riffing.
Muse: It's called brainstorming.
Satya: Oh.

Satya riffs to PB. PB gently eggs her on. Satya, as usual, takes it to weird places. Much giggling, and self-entertainment. Satya feels sparkly.

Satya: Um, Muse, how about that story....
Muse: You have the idea. The riff?
Satya: But that can't be the story, surely. It's...simplistic, silly. There's no logic.
Muse: Take it or leave it. That's what it is.
Satya: But Margaret Atwood is a judge. We've just finished watching 'The Handmaid's Tale'.... This isn't going to fly with her.
Muse: Want me to take it back?
Satya: No, no. It's just that....I thought our idea would be more....important.
Muse: You don't do straight importance. You go the Pratchett, Adams, and Asprin route. You use humour.
Satya: People don't take it seriously. They think there's no skill to it.
Muse: Must I remind you that those 'writer people' you're thinking of write shitbox clunky humour, and you don't. Now, here's a nice new notebook, and your favourite turquoise Lamy fountain pen. Get on with it.

Tomorrow, I start trying to transcribe my handwriting. Not as easy as it used to be. My handwriting is even worse, and my eyesight...well, I can see I'm in for a 'squint at the page, then type a few words, then squint at the page' session or two.

But that's tomorrow. Right now, I can tell you that all this chipperness is a smoke screen for The Sad, and The Exhaustion. I didn't sleep well last night, so fibro symptoms are rolling through me, namely joint and muscle pain. The Sad is nagging to consider images of hanging and being shot in the head. The Exhaustion wants me to lie down and die.
Yeah, well, not tonight, thanks. Now that I've realised that I'm on to my second World War II book, and I've been listening to another WWII book in the car, I've ceased 2/3, and am applying 'The Utterly Ultimate My Word Collection' by Frank Muir and Denis Norden. That should make me laugh, and I can forget about Nazis.
Full Moon in Aquarius, plus a partial lunar eclipse. No wonder my brain is messed up.
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
I lay in bed this morning, and thought: "Oh pooh, I have appointments, and yoga that require me to be in the world, just when I don't want to be."
I had the choice of cancelling everything and staying put in bed, with the justification of 'well, everyone needs rest'. In reality, I feel low, and lethargic, and tired of fighting the cold, all for the sake of 'living a life'.
It's July, so here's the Big Sad, the Big Anxious, and the mid-winter blues. I long to be in Darwin, Mission Beach, Monkey Mia. Anywhere warm, tropical, with lots of sunlight. I want bright green, and white sand, and blue sky and ocean. I want to not be wrapped up to the eye-teeth in layers and layers of clothes until I feel I'm suffocating.
I want all my writing to be done, and not have to go back into it and fix all the dumb-ass mistakes.
Today, I want to be the Four of Swords, someone lying in their tomb.
Yeah, I know it's bad thinking. You know what, I don't have it in me to alter it today.
I'll mope along to yoga, because that's what I do. I'll eat food, because one must, I suppose. I'll read because what else is there? Because these are things that make up my life, and I don't know how to just sit and moulder away to nothing.
I know all the nutrition, and exercise, and change-my-thoughts stuff. I can do all that. No use telling me to 'get out for a walk and have an orange'. I'll likely do both today. They won't change in the inner essence of me that's craving sunlight, and warmth, and....well, preferably the ability to sit and not move, and not think.
satyapriya: Macchu Picchu 2009 (Default)
Well, so much for the good intentions to be here twice a week. Most of that motivation was to 'build my on-line platform', and you know what, fuck that for a joke. I'd rather be writing actual stuff.
Which hasn't been happening either. I had a great rhythm going there for a bit, and then fell of the bike. Now I have a head cold, which won't kill me - I'll just wish it would.
It's 4.41pm, getting dark already. Winter Solstice, and I've done nothing about that, apart from a brief foray to Lincraft to buy a swatch of black and white cloth for my altar. Instead, I've spent most of this afternoon either reading the 4th Harry Potter book, or dicking about online.
I have three candles burning on the coffee table in front of me. There, that's my big ritual to welcome back the light. Even though we're still in for the coldest months of the year, and I feel cold and dark, and insular.
Rather shitty too, that this head cold has caused me to miss a seminar through the Emerging Writers Festival, and cancel my planned trip to Alice Springs for the Beanie Festival.
Fuck! on both counts.
Part of me wants to just lie down, turn my back to the outside world, and mope. Part of me wants to watch classic movies such as 'All About Eve' until late Spring is here. Part of me hopes to forge ahead with 257 writing projects and burst on the scene like a comet.
A very small part of me might like to attend Medtrek 6, but I dunno, I'm not much of a con-goer these days, and would know only very few people. I'm not much good at sitting around reminiscing about Medtrek 1, and 2, because I didn't attend them.
Oh, I'm a gloomy person today. A curse on all the head-filling gunk of viruses.
Okay, that's it, no more moaning. Stop putting this shit out in the world.

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