Writing me Down

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

The Place Where I Write

(This is a tutorial exercise.)

A woodpigeon hoots on the roof and the cockerel crows repeatedly two doors down. Outside, the sun casts shadows across the ridges and furrows of the top field. A gathering of greenfinches alight on the rosebush outside my window, attracted by the sunflower seed that hangs on the bird table. They go wild for sunflower seed.

I write resting on a mahogany dining table that used to belong to Rick’s Gran. In front of me, an orange box file holds course materials. Beside it sits a white tin with a picture of two grouse that used to contain miniatures of ‘The Finest Scotch Whisky’. It now contains tiny round tins of coloured ink cartridges, and a few stamps. In front of me is my sketchbook, open at the page I painted this afternoon – a watercolour of my mug and a few notebooks. To my right, the same blue mug, a green stain curving around the inside from the peppermint tea. Next to me lies a printout of this exercise in black, magenta and blue ink. On the other side of the table is the vermilion-red and wine of the course textbook, and a jumble of pinks, greens and blues of my journal notebooks. Colourful notebooks inspire me to use them. I write in coloured inks, with a fountain pen crafted out of walnut. At the moment, the writing on the page in front of me is cyclamen-pink.

The dining table is in our lounge at the back of the house where the sun comes in for most of the day. Its warmth is comforting. I look at the back of a large green sofa, with a deep blue fleece blanket draped over the back like a discarded cloak. Beyond the sofa, over the redbrick fireplace, hangs a Kandinsky print with colourful circles in 3x4 boxes.


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