Things Writerly
I think this may be slightly self-indulgent, but hey, it's my blog, so whatthehell.
Last night, my writing group did this experimental thing going out to Hampstead Heath, and walking around, observing, and writing. It was amazing. Not least because, I'm never entirely convinced I like nature. I'm an urban zone-two girly, and up until the last couple of years, I've only done nature under suffrance.
So here are some random thoughts/phrases/fragments that came out of last night...
... a sparse, gothic tree, like two gnarled lovers hanging on for dear life
... a glassy puddle like a mirrored rorschach inkblot
...summer debris abandoned in the long grass
...the dangling fronds of the silver birch, drooping down like a thousand disappointed spinsters
...the christmas-red of the quince flower, trailing along the ground
... do you think that Joan Walsh's life's dream was to be a bench overlooking the barren playground on the heath?
... the building: a sixities monstrosity overseeing affairs like an angry headmaster, or a concerned grandmother
...I wish I knew more words for nature
...the spent kite billowing on the ground like a beached sperm whale
...an indeterminably young woman, with thick ankles, sporting American Tan tights, sensible shoes and a coat that hides a hundred secrets, strides past, purposefully
...the city hides the secrets of all those who choose to conceal themselves within her
...we looked like a cult: six women on Parliament Hill, clutching, scribbling, writing. A cult with notebooks
...a dream about a gnarled, gothic, victoriana below a sheltering sky. The meaning: never trust the darkness, it knows your secrets
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