“What we are today comes from our thoughts of yesterday, and our present thoughts build our life of tomorrow: Our life is the creation of our mind.” – Buddha

Amazing morning: after days of torpor, sleep fallumping fattily all over me, Lethe dragging me under to wallow in her depths from afternoon ’til mid-morning, and a very bizarre appetite, today’s begun with a 7am up-and-at-’em determination; with vim. Coffee and yesterday’s paper in bed were prescribed until consciousness was attained and then it was time for The Thing: a six mile run in the dreeky drizzle.

heron.jpgGorgeous! The birds were still in charge of the canal’s soundtrack; the clouds were not really weeping, more shaking the damp sleep from their eyes (perhaps with a bit of a sniffle); so few human beings about and none keen to smile or frown, not being really conscious, still taken by whatever subconscious scenes they played in the night before. My imping (not limping, thank you) stride came quickly today, half a mile sooner than usual: this is the point where you could as well be walking for all the consciousness you have of running. So then you push yourself, then lull back, push then forgetfully lull.

The better thing was that this is the first early morning run for months, since the stretch went over the four mile mark. Everything in 2008 so far has been mid-morning or mid-afternoon: a very different experience. And this morning thing really works – it’s why I’m writing this now, while I’m fresh with it. Great creative ideas for various writing projects (some very wicked and truly Imp, of which more in the future, I hope), a feeling of privileged access and insight into the route’s environment – just a peek, but special, nonetheless. Fantasies, half-anchored in reality, of the future life of the Imp’s play: who will play X character, would Y be a good director, an Imp-goading list of who will be in the first audience. Followed, not surprisingly, by resolutions and deadlines: this draft complete in days, before the next public reading on Tuesday – how fast can I commit for the third draft?

The play is definitely maturing. The first draft took three months. the-creation.jpgWhat delight, what pride, such celebration! Then we had some time apart – we were on a break, so to speak. Paying work intervened and to be honest, I neglected my honey. Thankfully, I came back. Thankfully, I now think, I went away. But what flaws I’d left it with: what a terrible lover, a terrible parent! So me and the play, we’re into some heavy nurturing, some repair, some shared, quality time. We’re helping each other – it doesn’t always do what I tell it to, but it’s often right and I am wrong. This may mean the original idea gets subsumed, but for something better.

OK, it’s calling….may your weekend be hale, hearty, full of love and smiles.



“What garlic is to salad, insanity is to art”: Augustus Saint-Gaudens.

What will we do here? I want to have fun, poke my mischievous fingers into the things around us, and have a sideways slanted peek into the everyday and the odd. It’s a Jamie-style salad: bring some garlic to throw in when you come. If you like.

The plan is manifold and always changing – but here’s the initial manifesto (for my benefit more than yours, I suspect):

– language is for playing with

– creativity should be messy and incomplete

– don’t be shy or die curious

– don’t apologise unless you’ve really done something wrong; otherwise, no permissions required

– don’t waste life subsuming yourself in chasing others’ approval

– laugh out loud when you’re on your own to frighten the neighbours.

Here is the Imp, last week, reflecting on how you can read all you like, write like a thing possessed and do your very best, but all in all, you’re a bit crap if you forget to live life, here, now, and not in the regrets and what-ifs of the past and the future.