They say that writers are supposed to notice things. Currently I'm noticing that it is twenty-three minutes to midnight, and that unless I write something very fast I won't have a blog post for this day at all. And for NaBloPoMo, that just won't do.
So I thought I'd write about what I've noticed, today:
On my drive over to the sailing barge this afternoon, I noticed that my friend the Poet can't bear to colour a conversation with silence. He must talk through the quiet, and as he becomes more voluble, I make the silences for us both. After a while I crave it, and sometimes I even tell him to stop talking. Luckily, because we like one another so much, he doesn't mind. Today he'd been wittering on for a while when he stopped abruptly and said I'm talking too much again, aren't I? I noticed that he's noticed...
On our drive over to the sailing barge I also noticed the Kentish countryside, and how the ancient trees struck jagged shapes on the horizon in the mist. The colours were khaki and willow green and every shade of brown. I noticed how that horizon soothed me as we drove.
I noticed too how flat the water was in the little inlet where the barge is moored, as if the water would move as one, like a plate, if I had waded in and given it a push.
I noticed how cosy it was inside the barge; how warm the stove makes it once lit; how much I like my connection with the family who run the place.
This evening I noticed how lean the Bim is now compared to when we first met. How much older he looks, how he has lost his baby face for good.
I noticed for the umpteenth time how beautiful Anna-mouse's golden hair is, and how well she threw together her clothes for going to the cinema and how she will be a faster reader than myself, because she naturally skips the unimportant words on the page.
I noticed a lightness in me, all day, because yesterday I did something out of the ordinary, and today I faced a few, small fears.
These things I noticed, and more.