Writing Saves My Life In Stillframes. (A Summary).

So, I set off for Borders, with prose for later, and two old poems which I know that no one’s seen, as yet; at least, no one there. One of them’s already on this blog; they may both be, I cannot recollect.

Sitting on the bus, then in the café with my 5-shot as I wait for clock to move, emotion and memory stirred. It’s weird, starting the group again (good weird, though, I have to clarify). It’s like walking through a park where you roamed so long ago, and sitting on the swings with a couple of your grown-up friends; betting on who can swing the highest. And as you come to a heel-digging halt, you see yourself, a child, the first time you made it all the way across the monkey bars. And you see the pivotal game of Pirates; the first time that you, the Merchant Sailor, ever won the fight. The time you fell and your skirt rose above pant-line; the way you stumbled home coated gravel, humiliated by the blunder, even though you knew they would forget. And the last time you wandered across the tarmac, reluctantly knowing that you weren’t coming back. You can picture playmate’s faces, hear their words both harsh and good as they passed their judgement, which you valued greatly, then. You glance across at your newfound adult friends, and realise that nothing’s changed, except the world.

*

You know that feeling you get when you’re with people you appreciate; people you admire. Well, Tuesday was like that. It’s great to have people I can trust to give honest, thorough feedback on the way I’m heading (even if it’s only fiction). Thanks, guys, if you’re reading this! It would be nice if a few other Old Faces joined the troupe again, to see how much has changed for all of us.

And, as it used to do, the group rouses something deep within, enforces the desire to write; the one so strong that I can think of nothing else, and if I try, it causes pain, as every muscle protests in electro-spasm. You think I’m joking?

So, Mark and I head back to Royston, accidentally watching Law and Order, before calling it a night. I wrote in bed for half an hour; nothing huge, but I couldn’t stop the flow, until the heaviness of sleep extracted the ability to move.

7:30, I’m up, and as soon as I stretch, I’m reaching for the pen. A few jotted concepts, and I head downstairs. Breakfast, then we get to work.

The day was a success, for both of us I think (the first hour producing 997 words; completing the scene which lay stagnant for months). A day of ceaseless words, half written, half reviewed, both of us appraising the works of the other, then running through our scribbled notes. Yet, we remained relaxed, as we always do; mixing things with film scores to push the mind along, without the spiked tendrils of distraction that always come with lyrics. And we talked of all the things the other has missed within our lives, through our apathetic view of contact.

We watched Final Fantasy, too, and I spent the whole film wishing I could draw like that, and wishing that Aki were real. And marvelling at detail. Wow.

In other notes, there’s a piece of Mark’s that nobody has seen, and I’m promised the privilege of butchering it lovingly for him; as I know he’ll do for me (All’s fair) with other works.

We’re doing this again next week.

*

On the way to the station, a pastel pink moon encapsulates the vision of other travellers too, as they stop beside the road to stare. It almost takes up half the sky. A solitary streak of turquoise cloud breaks this perfect image, and somehow makes it something more; a contrast to the powder blue of backdrop sky.

Approaching Leeds, this same moon, still a low hung show-stealer, has deepened to the yellow-green of edam, set against the deepest navy blue you’ve ever seen.