I’ve been absent, absent-minded, not quite here, out of sorts, not myself. I’ve been a bit poorly, had some kind of bug, haven’t been sleeping well and, to make matters worse, because I lost my only pair of decent reading glasses, I’m wearing an old pair which are scratched, not the right prescription and giving me headaches. The summer’s over, have you noticed? The mornings are darker, I’m wearing more cardigans, I’m lighting the lamps in the house and drawing all the blinds earlier and earlier each evening. Wait there while I go and find a jumper. My legs feel cold. I’m trying to rock that summer dress with added layers look and it really isn’t working. Did I mention the lenses are scratched? I can hardly make out what I’m typing. I’ve just made myself a cream cheese bagel. It’s deliciously warm and stodgy and comforting.
Of course, not being here means I’ve been there, somewhere else, not plugged in, wifi free, unconnected, unwired, untethered, at-large, on the hoof, somewhere quiet, pen in hand, notebooks piled in a friendly mess around me.
Not feeling dynamic, sitting around, noticing things, daydreaming, making notes, writing on drafts, re-drafting, printing out, writing again. Reading. Re-reading books and magazines from years ago. I think something’s sinking in. God, I drink a lot of tea.
Not quite here, out of sorts, not feeling sociable but getting some writing done. Not bad at all, really. Quite pleasant. But odd. Not like me or maybe the new me.