Saturday, 9 April 2016

writing on the machine

late up, it is Saturday. A day of bright sunlight, pale blue sky.
It is nine in the morning, it would have been time to rise from bed, levantar, some time ago, where it not for the body's wish for rest.
Wife brings a cup of coffee, all well, and sitting at the edge of the bed there is time to think about what to do with the rest of the day.

Hope for a new poem from the two amateur poets, hope that they have time, and that they wish to write again. The wish for something not existent, everyone has it, and there is no point in self delusion, it will not make things that are not there, that are not available, exist.
Are like, love, hate, dislike, contempt, reverence, attraction, revulsion all contradictory, or can lovers hate and dislike? Or must all feelings really exist in a sort of pristine unity on a little plinth of their own, to be admired, the seven deadly sins of the past as statues to warn the congregation.

Thoughts like these over coffee are not constructive, there is a shower to be repaired, a corridor to be cleaned and tidied, these things that must be done so that the days may continue.

so think about clothing, get ready for the day.
Mentally that is.
Drink another cup of coffee first
 and stop sitting at the opened desk writing on the machine

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