I know it's been a while. I'm a little embarrassed, to be honest, and did a double take when I realised my last post was dated January. And since we're doing the whole honesty thing, this is my third attempt at writing anything for the blog in as many days. Not because I've forgotten how but because a) handwriting in a journal on a daily basis has become second nature and b) by the time I've done pouring all my energy into the journal I really don't have a lot left over.
Sad but true and perhaps a dangerous admission for an absent writer to make. But then I've never been one to shy away from danger.
I can tell you that in all the pages of handwriting one or two idiosyncrasies have come to light. I appear to have an obsession with laundry. If I'm not putting laundry into the washing machine then I've just hung it on the line or it's in the tumble dryer or been folded and put away. It features a lot in the humdrum of my day. Make of that what you will.
I think the lure of the journal has outweighed the blog for reasons which have become clearer to me over time. For one, it's so easy to pick up and jot things down. Nothing wrong with that of course, and actually the point to having a journal in the first place is to capture the mood of the moment, the happening as it happens before time and memory steal the whispers of a thread. Hauntings are fleeting after all and we must be alert to the possibility of manifestations. Blink and they're gone before the brain's even had time to register.
Another benefit of journaling is being able to write through the flotsam and jetsam of the mind into clearer waters where creativity lies.Virginia Woolf gives a wonderful description of a writer's thought process to a place deserving of further investigation here. I particularly enjoy the imagery of a fishing line trawling the depths catching who knows what until it's dragged to the surface and examined.
And examine we must if we are to discover what lies beyond the brink or beneath the murky surface of those darkest places where the terrain is unfamiliar and uninviting. It takes a brave explorer to enter the shadows with nought but a candle to see by in search of the gold hidden within the everyday mundane. Nudging along into close, tight spaces testing the sandy ground cautiously as we venture forth inch by nerve wracking, hair pulling inch, eyes narrowed, body tense ready for fight or flight until at last! The tunnel opens up, the ceilings become higher and the words take on a flow. The writer has become a channel as they write themselves so clear is the intent and the way forward.
Nothing gives me more pleasure than the sight of freshly laundered clothes billowing on the line. The flash of colours so bright the glare from the suns reflection hurts my eyes until I have to look away. The wind tugs mischievously seeking to entice the clothes from their mooring and dance them, clown like above the houses and across the gardens until bored, they're abandoned to their scattered fate.
She roars her warning in my covered ears until I am blind and dizzy with delight.