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No
music, the natural and mechanical mix is for today. Apart from the
evasion of the passive voice, be mindful about the avoidance of clichés
and superfluous words. Have a miniature bible of literary pros and cons,
originally written some ninety years ago, American, not a thing you
normally covet; however, it is succinct and easy to follow. The one you
have is a library book, yet once you have disposable income again, it
will be one of the initial purchases. Another sister offers to buy it
for you.
On the way down here, notice a mass of coloured plastic balls, in between golf and tennis balls in size, strewn across the road. Initially think of the poor child without toys. Ride up the street, notice coloured balls under cars, on the footpath, against trees, in driveways, and the number decreases the further you ride from the origin. Think less of the poor child and more of the symbolic connection to the placement of the balls, how they share among many, the communal toy.
The addict’s narrative streams consciously, a writer friend notices this in your writing, a known trait of Virginia Woolf. Read only one of her books, love the flow, her style.
Some days, find it difficult to be mindful, to step back, see in front, must minimise the use of “but”; goes back to 1994 when the Argentine girl you love claims you write often with that conjunction.
Silence floods; the ducks come with their ripples to distract the noise of the cars. The book reads hard for the first one hundred pages, he recovers; need more time and meditation. A willy wagtail nears, uncovers a prison memory. They rouse other birds, prance, wave their tails in other beaks, say ... go on, touch me ... so small, care so little, sacred to some Aboriginal tribes, have their role, simple, around the kookaburras they try to intimidate, and the kookaburras, Australian ornithological royalty, ignore them.
The majestic black swans, more than black, a layer of white feathers underneath, float with elegance, tilt forward into a quick dive, feed on the mossy bottom, respectfully lead the ducks, herons and coots; together the keepers of the lake. Love that humans have no rights to the lake, entices the future; belong to nobody, a fortune entitles the view. How wonderful to simply be, the ripples and the birds, the calls, ignorance of human sound, all that you see, eyes in thrall, a long distance from any human, see them, their houses, their cars, yet remain invisible, a pylon on the pier, part of the structure, linger after departure.
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