Remember those Sunday mornings, rumpled sheets, tea in bed, reading the newspapers and surfacing just in time for lunch at a pub chosen by consensus. Or ignore the rumpled bed and getting down to the beach as the sun rises in the west; south; sky. This Sunday I have already been awake for about two hours, the first hour was spent tiding up a very messy study, the second trying to get some work done out of the tidied up paper before I can try to have a proper Sunday (alas - I see more work spreading before me - and this blog is just an interlude). Is it nostalgia? Did those days ever really exist? And actually does anyone really want to read this (that) I doubt it really. Yesterday, in an effort to at least forget I had chopped the tip off my finger (which I confess I am having difficulty with - typing with doubled up bandaids is not easy) I read this,“Haiku is not a shriek, a howl, a sigh, or a yawn; rather, it is the deep breath of life.” And I guess we could change the word haiku to be many different things (and it will be different for different people with different religious persuasions, thoughts, ideas and so on) because I realise I am not writing here but just thinking out loud. Thinking thoughts and pouring them out willy-nilly rather than trying to gather them into a sense of meaning - the still quiet of a Sunday morning, cats at the back door, an autumnal garden yawning, warm tea in a mug, the faint hum of the fridge, a Victorian house creaking, gold and red and orange leaves dropping, a grey sky dawning, it is not a shriek, a howl, a sigh, or a yawn; rather, it is the deep breath of life... take time for guitars and mandolins:
