Morning breeze

What words to use?

Humble?

Perhaps…

The beauty of a so-called weed gently dancing to the tune of the breeze under the caresses of the morning sun, the dullness of its branches becoming luminous as the light embraces it with its brilliance.

Morning.

That’s all.

Last night…

Or, better said, early this morning was the first time I felt the winter cold.

I bought this sketch book, it seems to be taking the ink of this pen quite well.

I bought another Parker fountain pen, part of the Sonnet range. Quite a classic design, which has been going on for a number of years. The one I bought, online, is matt black with gold trims, very subdued. That is good, actually.

I am writing this with an older Parker fountain pen. I like the way it slides over the paper, blue ink with green overtones. A green undercurrent below the blue. So, I think that I will stay with this ink.

This pen, a Parker which I bought some years ago, will be loaded with black ink, while the new one will be loaded with blue ink. That will allow me to play with the colours, perhaps black ink for sketches or drawings, while good will be for text.

November 9, 2021

Tuesday

Not a cloud in the sky. Blue.

Morning.

A clear morning, like my mind.

On my lap, Yannick, quiet, enjoying the morning, as I did.

The woman in the distance, presumed to be Bosnian, working on the garden she has made from common land. She is building a wooden enclosure, for what I can see. I have a look, later.

I ate a portion of Tiramisu, the supermarket variety. I wonder how it would taste, how it would be, if home made. Maybe the alcohol on it made me kind of addicted. Maybe not.

I am writing because I like to write, because I have not written anything for a while, because I want to get rid of the spider webs clouding my brain, because I am getting older.

I see on social media Greta getting pissed off with the so called negotiators on international climate gatherings giving way to fossil fuels companies’ representatives, who put the interest of their companies akin to those of the planet. Looking at how they behave, looking at how people behave, looking at Greta, in the back of my mind I cannot stop thinking that the ability of Earth to sustain life as we know it is fucked. By our actions.

Yet, the sky was of a brilliant blue shade, this morning.

November 8, 2021

Monday

Dawn: A band of dark clouds on the south side of the sky, with brilliant pink fringes mingled with the darkness of the greys, getting stronger on the south. They have the texture and the density of cotton buds.

Behind this band, a mass of dark clouds slowly advancing from the north. A battle in the sky ensued.

The prosaic past down has settled on paler, whitish clouds against the light blue of the patches of sky which we can see coming through, heralding the end, for this Monday be what it is.

And the days go on and on…

Today feels like autumn

That is because it is autumn.

This pen has been with me I don’t remember how many years. It fits in my hand it. That, perhaps, it’s because I have used it for a long time. The Parker blue ink dos not jump into my eyes as it were their owner. It stays on the page, sometimes still, sometimes dancing.

The steps I have been taking slowly in the last few days are pointing at a new direction, building on what I have been doing before, but, I hope, with new eyes – based on the tired old ones. I am not ditching all this new technology – I need to tame this laptop, building resilience as machines, ultimately, fail. But these words will remain as long as the paper where they were originally written does not perish, and the ink remains visible.

The pleasure of writing with a fountain pen makes me smile on my insides. What I am writing, whatever it is, remains visible to my eyes: switching on a machine is not required.

These words do not mean that I am ditching all this new (well!) technology. There is space for new and old ways of doing things to stay in the same room side by side.

This morning I cleaned this pen after a few years of not using it. The sensuality as it hits the paper makes me content. Pleasurably it is.

What day is today? I am not going to look at the tablet, or the calendar, to know. It is early November, Halloween fireworks being noisy outside, lit by the kids of the neighbourhood.

I look through the window, the golden evening light bathe the fallen leaves. The sun hiding in the far golden toned shades the otherwise mundane industrial landscape filtering through the gaps of the estate.