A smudge in a grey dressing gown. I’ve been writing, too much. If that is possible. Fourteen flash in the last two weeks. More in a collection I’m building. But I’m beginning to feel the cracks. In among the cracks, the heads of cherry blossoms, folded neat as sentences.
I’ve finished the book that took a month and a bit to read, and expect to review it shortly. When I am not a smudge sick with creativity. When I’m not pink candyfloss puffball seen torn through mist, adding up to – something. I pick up a book – Jamaica Kincaid’s Lucy, and hope I can devote to it what it deserves, and that it will repay me with severe and stinging balm.
More news here when it is to be shared.
I don’t know that these photos are any good; I was trying to capture a sun-shower that started up as I walked home yesterday, through Edinburgh’s financial district. It is raining in that top picture too, though it might be hard to tell. There’s always something magical when it rains while the sky is so bright. That gap in the bottom picture, beyond the cars, is where a plot of land stands empty and unsold. It’s all weeds and piles of earth that, if not one lays down concrete, will soon be covered in new grass, thistles, those waving purple-blossomed trees that butterflies are said to love.
I hope that if developers do take it over, they make it a park. To keep the opening, open, for just such times as these.
I hardly have the art down, but sometimes the light’s like this, and it makes the canal softened, the path and rooftops metallic, the grass and hedge something from a painting by 19th century artist forgotten in a loft by her family for decades and then unfolded in winter. But here in person, it’s Edinburgh, October.
In ten days I leave to be in the mountains and research flash fictional narratives and write the third novel, which is of beauty and of desolation. Edinburgh in white, explosive mountain light. Or what lights the mountains have, and I shall find out.
I wish sometimes I could be better than I am. Cooler, sharper, smarter, more direct. But I can only reflect the places that made me. Like a book of photographs. Moors and hills, and the cities and towns of Scotland. Even New York couldn’t spit polish me, or Sydney buff away the mist.
Ten days before I go. I’m not sure I’ll post before then. Maybe one last rallying shout. The explorer to her home-rooted crew.