Morning
Papers in the Municipality of Medellín
Nothing is
happening and it happens over & over. Going a weekend without writing, one
believes they might return to the keyboard with some newfound enthusiasm,
perhaps a shred of rejuvenated ability from having lay dormant the lust to sit
down and patter out some words & sentences. They evaded me then, now they
avoid me. They will return, come crawling back. Maybe. They will be drawn from
whatever recesses they have scurried into, the tiny cracks into which summer’s
dust was blown, the linen at the back of the laundry cupboard where the
silverfish swim for crumbs, the curl of my bellybutton’s knot! I will get them.
Until then, a journalist in the Municipality of Medellín advises me to write
‘the morning papers’, five-hundred words before breakfast, on everything, on
nothing, every morning 500 words, equivalent to 3 x journal pages.
I thought
about it Saturday morning, and it was such a bright morning, but my good mood –
which is balanced on me having just the right amount of sleep, not what would
be considered a good amount, nor too little – was already precarious on account
of me having dreamt of H. Some bad news delivered, and I cursed aloud,
walked in circles in the garden.
How many words on a journal page though? The journals I kept at university, before I stumbled them onto the internet, contained very few words, and always from different pens, kind of scratched, kind of clawed and scrawled. Such an angry young man! Many little illustrations, depictions of dreams, phrases that repeated in my head, nonsense poetry, barely coherent stammerings of a loner who positioned his bed next to the window and looked through the gap in the curtains to the streetlight outside his window. They are in landfill now, or a recycling plant, I cannot recall where I disposed of them.
How many words on a journal page though? The journals I kept at university, before I stumbled them onto the internet, contained very few words, and always from different pens, kind of scratched, kind of clawed and scrawled. Such an angry young man! Many little illustrations, depictions of dreams, phrases that repeated in my head, nonsense poetry, barely coherent stammerings of a loner who positioned his bed next to the window and looked through the gap in the curtains to the streetlight outside his window. They are in landfill now, or a recycling plant, I cannot recall where I disposed of them.
The house
was full again. My mood, my mood! It appears that here, on the precipice of
spring, having weathered winter, my state of mind is as thin as can be, my
wellbeing at its most fragile, prone to stress, nightmares, anxious nibblings. I
groaned and passed out for a walk. Nothing is happening and it happens over
& over. There was something that I kept saying to myself on repeat—‘My
emotions are pennies—separate they are worthless—I keep them in a jar—I cannot
throw them away—all of them are heavy—if I put them together, maybe I can make
something.’ Then I thought of Toby Ziegler walking down the streets of New
York with a roll of pennies in his fist. The phone at an angle and the wind
could be heard; if I did not call my grandmother now, I never would. I had not
spoken to her since her birthday on the fifteenth of June. She talked for a
long time, although at first I worried I was interrupting her; a while to reach
the phone—‘Hello…?’—and then mildly out of breath, always a kind of
static that you do not get on other telephone lines. She kept calling me Sean.
At first I corrected her, then after twenty or so times I gave up. ‘Who is
Sean?’ I asked my mother when I got home. ‘That’s Bridie’s son.’ Bridie was her
sister and best friend and she died last year. ‘She kept calling me Sean.’ I
cannot blame her for getting my name wrong, nor can I blame myself for having
given up correcting her.
There you go. Five-hundred and eighty-three words. The morning papers.
There you go. Five-hundred and eighty-three words. The morning papers.