Writing after a break
Writing after a break
I write to you now from Christchurch, New Zealand. My writing desk is on the borderlands of an estuary. There are a dozen houses or so before my street ends and wetlands begin. Within walking distance are two river mouths, Avon and Heathcote. But there is still distance between me and nature.
Suburbia is beyond my door: SUVs, security cameras, lemon trees and dog walkers. I must pass through it, if I want to be somewhere other than this house. I’m only here for another few weeks. I cannot help but feel the strangeness of this place seeping into my body. No matter what: my circumstances influence the page in front of me.
Breaking the surface tension
It’s a new year and I’ve been struggling to find the flow of this website. I felt inspired at the end of last year. Now, my mind is on other things. Real survival things. Find a permanent space to live. Grow roots. Bear fruit and make a living in the market.
There are deep parts of me that love the life of a poet on the road. But the human animal needs stability, security. I feel like a king beneath a roof, after sleeping by rivers over Summer. How glorious, the running water of a shower. How divine, the thread count of sheets on skin, on a bed with pillows.
My writing has changed in a city. It is fragmented. Far away. Like something I used to do. Like a dream that disappears when I grasp at pens and paper.
This year is picking up speed. It’s almost February. There are threads that pull me back to the slow time of big nature. Wherein, I can walk the old growth forests and valleys. Wherein, I can be in the company of trees and very few people.
I must accept that I am city and suburbia, for better or worse. I am wetlands and estuary. I am stormwater drains and road cones beneath the waters of the Avon. If I want to survive here, I must break the surface tension of my stagnant creativity. I must find a way to feel secure and drink from the deep waters of myself.
A small stone still ripples on water
I cannot describe the amount of distraction, apathy, procrastination, grief, anger, boredom and hunger that it has taken to write this journey entry. Few words have come to the surface. I sit down, spin my chair, scroll my mouse and leave the room. This happens many, many times.
The page stares at me with empty space between unformed words. The sentences that linger with me need cajoling into meaning and order. I do not dare confront them. There is frustration in this process. My body needs to feel the blocks and release them. But this, I do not want to do.
It’s like being on the edge of a pond during a hot season. There is no fresh water. No movement. The only life is beneath the algae. Each day, the sun dries more water. Mud banks expose themselves. All the pond needs is a single stone to skim the surface. Then movement shall return to the water. But here’s the thing, I am alone in a new environment. There is no one to throw stones but me.
There is no one to tell me that stones do not bring life to water. I need to remind myself that fresh water will come if you wait long enough for the rain. This is me, waiting. This is me, trying to trust that the writing will come.
This is all for now.
Let’s talk again soon,
Harley.
