I don’t rage against the dying of the light in a Scottish Autumn. I like putting on lamps in the afternoon and seeing into people’s windows from the bus; stealing details for stories. I relish the warmth of the house in contrast to the new chill outdoors.
I’m letting the idea that, ‘what’s in the way is the way‘ guide my creativity since hearing it on a podcast. It’s illuminated a lot for me about further tuning victim narratives into survivor stories; I’m enthralled with the empowerment born from simple cognitive adjustments.
The season so far’s been kind in Edinburgh. Underfoot the ground’s mercifully dry and the sun seems brighter for longer than in recent years.
I’ve moved my desk to a window so I can soak up as much light as possible while I work. It’s made such a difference to feel connected with outdoors and in; from clouds, buses and birds on one side of the glass to the simple luxuries of late afternoon radiator warmth and lamp light inside. At last, I’ve found a balance that’s just right for me. Phew.
What’s #52and40 all about, Alfie? The answer’s here.
Autumn’s a time for appreciating contrasts. I’ve been walking and running more mindfully than usual, it’s easy to do in this season of wet pavements, dry leaves, shadowy buildings and bright mid-morning skies.
The dog stops and waits for me to take photos or scratches his back on long grass or a tree trunk while I admire stuff. One black dog’s goodness keeps the badness of another black dog from nipping my heels, I believe.
At home, the lamps and heating are on. I wrap myself into hibernation mode, in Autumn.
I’ve been trying out listening to classical music after enjoying the dancing fingers of piano playing guests this summer. I wondered out loud what it was about classical music that makes it so relaxing. ‘It’s the lack of beat’, answered my husband, ‘it’s arrhythmic’.
I think there’s a surrender and engagement with classical music when you’re hearing it for the first time; a bit like watching an unreviewed, intriguing performance.
Maybe when time’s unmarked by a beat I keep myself uncharacteristically still, so I can mentally lean in a little more.
I’ve been reading a book and listening to a podcast I wouldn’t normally choose. Both stories are crime based; one’s real, the other fictitious.
Both stories are painstakingly, expertly told.
I’ve been intrigued by the acute effects of this different ‘entertainment’ material; I’ve been more alert and somehow quieter. My dreams have gone mad with threats, high risk puzzles, gasping pursuits and hiding.
Paranoia snuck into a dark corner of my mind like an oily gangster, lent on a lamppost and exhaled cigar smoke among my neurons.
I sang a solo in assembly at primary school. I was not to sing with my accent. I was to smooth it out, press it, make it like the ones on telly. Stop it from being harsh, hard, common, comical and broad. To make it more beautiful, for the song.
My Mum taught me to use a posh voice if you needed to be taken seriously; at work, returning something to a shop, parent’s night, church and politicians.
The song was called All Alone. Nowadays I have one voice for everything.