I hate writing. I don’t enjoy it. Don’t enjoy the process. One story I wrote was so hilarious it even made me laugh and I didn’t mind writing that too much because it’s so funny when you crack yourself up but as a rule I frequently loathe writing. Sometimes I write poems and that’s probably because I’m depressed so it’s really better if I never write poems except I would maybe never write a poem again but that’s no loss to humanity because most of my poems are just garbage. I can’t draw or paint but I love to mess with all that stuff on the computer that lets me make a painting because I can’t draw or paint. I would so like to paint something really stunning and look at it and think I just painted that but it’s not going to happen because I only know the basics. I can’t sew or make my own clothes and my concentration is so bad I can’t read books, any books, even though I love to lose myself in a really good book. So, there you go. A few minutes of uninterrupted thinking where I haven’t bothered to correct the punctuation or even use it and of course the sentence structure is all over the place, there is none, but hey it never stopped James Joyce so who am I to give a frig if the pedant in me will read this later and scream, perhaps it’s time I let myself go and stopped being so controlling.
I wrote a missive to the Rookery in the early hours of the morning or more accurately the hour before dawn and I didn’t loathe writing that but I didn’t have to worry about what came next or if it passed some invisible test on the scale of good writing. It was me expressing some views without trying to offend or appease and once I got started I was on a roll so I kept going.
Then I thought that I felt stressed out so I wondered what I could do to stop me feeling stressed out and I remembered that once I was in the Lemurian Abbey and I came across a poem that was written by one of the older members of Lemuria and she had written this great soothing poem and she was in the summer house or some place like that and I stumbled on it and when I read it I was very calm and imagined us both there in the warmth and the sunshine just sitting and chilling and maybe she would tell me some stuff about life or her life or wasn’t it nice to be in Lemurian Abbey in the warmth and the bright sunshine and the perfume wafting through from the garden and if I would stay a while and shut up and be quiet in my head perhaps I would begin to learn for myself what to love and what to leave and how to shove the angst to one side because angst is not what you should hang on to in the summer house in the Lemurian Abbey. So that was a nice time and a nice memory but I couldn’t find that poem but it didn’t matter a damn because I looked at the garden and saw what people had done there and let my fingertips stroke the velvet petals of a huge peachy orange rose and I couldn’t believe that I was allowed to soak up so much beauty in one go and guess what if you want you can travel back in time to last autumn or last summer and find the fallen rose petals are turned in to a mosaic like impressionist painting but then you don’t do that academic stuff and start thinking about art movements because just down the way there are red autumn roses and signs that the birds will come and eat things off the trees like bright berries bright red berries that even sounds nice doesn’t it bright red berries no wonder the birds see them and want to eat them and holly bushes look so great in the snow and deck the halls with boughs of holly because if the words sound good you can be sure the real thing will look good and if it doesn’t then that’s just a big con or maybe there are no pros or cons just a bunch of nice things and wouldn’t it be great if we or me that’s I stopped comparing and looked at stuff and thought well that’s just gorgeous not better than or worse than but just gorgeous for being itself and all the flowers and shrubs and trees do that they be themselves and you don’t hear an oak tree say to a conifer hey don’t think you’re the best just because you’re an evergreen and grow cones because I’m a big old oak tree and you should have seen the show I put on for them in this Abbey this autumn I was so glorious and lemon lime orange red I was a piece of art to make a soul sing and I looked like an impressionist painting and I’ll be back in spring all greening up and budding and in the summer I am awesome and shady and did you notice my trunk is about two yards wider than your pathetic stick trunk and I’ve got gnarled bark all old and weather beaten because I’ve been here for centuries and mighty oaks from little acorns grow okay pal so you chew on that and the conifer says hey oak I never once thought we were having a best tree competition so get over yourself I’m a conifer and you’re a big old oak and I love all that funky oakiness that you do and the oak said no kidding you think I’m funky and the conifer says absolutely you’re always changing and anyway you don’t have to butt heads with me because you can be yourself and stand tall and proud and think to yourself I am a big old oak and I respect myself and I could say why I’m a slim tall conifer and I respect myself but in future I’ll tell you hey your leaves are gorgeous and you can say thanks I love your cones they’re really eye catching so here’s the deal you be you and I’ll be me and we’ll enjoy each other because we’re different. And just think if they said let’s shake on it cause that would be a heck of a lot of leaves and twigs and stuff in a big pile and anyway can you imagine a big old oak and a stripling conifer shaking on it they would look so funny or maybe they’d just be swaying in the breeze and none of us would know any different if we were chilling out for a spell in the Lemurian Abbey garden where the roses grow red and peachy and the nice old lady sits in the summer house and writes her gentle poems.