You’d have thought i’d be chomping at the bit to get my story out quickly beings as though I’m convalescing at home; Covid, my ailment, paracetamol, water and Bombay mix my medicine. But, I’ll be honest with you Rochelle, I’m absolutely worn out, everything is a hassle even after walking many many miles on my Cornish Holiday last week; Its amazing how life can turn on a sixpence. Anyway thanks for keeping this thing going and thanks to Penny Gadd for the pastoral photo, lets see if I can shake some life back into my old self.
On My Marks…
I remove my finger-smudged glasses, I can see the opaque verdant lushness of what I assume to be a forest; the type of trees that faces look out from. But I can’t see them.
The water rushes by, babbling over the shallower stretches, offering echoes, resonances I can’t work out. Like the stream is trying to tell me something, but nothing comes to mind.
Days in Isolation were dulling the senses, drifting in and out of consciousness, punctuated by the dog barking at the postman, my daughter coughing, my son shouting at his Xbox.
Covid destroys the creative process.
There we are 100 words on where I am at the moment, with covid, in bed, shit times.