Saturday, February 21, 2015
A letter from the park. On Saturday afternoons I sometimes like to sit in the park. Here is the view I'm looking at right now.
It's not hot; it's not sunny; but the humidity is oppressive. A foetid smell – some kind of excrement; an unpicked-up dog turd, or possum shit, perhaps – wafts occasionally past me, and every time it does I think, "I should leave. I should leave."
But I don't leave. I feel heavy, listless, unable to make decisions. A small child is squatting on the path behind me, wailing. I can't stand the sound of children crying. But I'm still worried about this child. Where are his parents? Is he lost?
I tell myself that when I come to the park, I'm going to do some writing. I've brought my notebook, it's resting on my knee, but I can't seem to figure out what to write in it. Somehow I thought that getting away from my desk, with all its distractions, would make it easier to write. It would make my head clearer. But I'm feeling more listless here than I would at home sitting in front of my computer. At least there it feels like I'm doing work.
I have so many different projects I want to write. Should I write my romcom novel, or my historical paranormal romance novel, on my Australian rural horror novel, or something else altogether? Shamefully, what I want to write most at the moment is the terrible cat-themed pr0n ebook that I made up as a joke with Anthony on Wednesday.
Speaking of cats, it's almost 7 o'clock and I should probably go home and feed poor old Graham; he has been sitting inside my house all day. I can't help thinking I've wasted this afternoon doing nothing. My entire life seems to be made up of wasted time spent doing nothing.
It's not hot; it's not sunny; but the humidity is oppressive. A foetid smell – some kind of excrement; an unpicked-up dog turd, or possum shit, perhaps – wafts occasionally past me, and every time it does I think, "I should leave. I should leave."
But I don't leave. I feel heavy, listless, unable to make decisions. A small child is squatting on the path behind me, wailing. I can't stand the sound of children crying. But I'm still worried about this child. Where are his parents? Is he lost?
I tell myself that when I come to the park, I'm going to do some writing. I've brought my notebook, it's resting on my knee, but I can't seem to figure out what to write in it. Somehow I thought that getting away from my desk, with all its distractions, would make it easier to write. It would make my head clearer. But I'm feeling more listless here than I would at home sitting in front of my computer. At least there it feels like I'm doing work.
I have so many different projects I want to write. Should I write my romcom novel, or my historical paranormal romance novel, on my Australian rural horror novel, or something else altogether? Shamefully, what I want to write most at the moment is the terrible cat-themed pr0n ebook that I made up as a joke with Anthony on Wednesday.
Speaking of cats, it's almost 7 o'clock and I should probably go home and feed poor old Graham; he has been sitting inside my house all day. I can't help thinking I've wasted this afternoon doing nothing. My entire life seems to be made up of wasted time spent doing nothing.
