A Mostly Seasonal and Made Up Noted -
ear worms - the word versions.
Noted. A series of Notes on nothing in particular. Some direct observations, others fragments of fiction that breeze into my brain. Words found drifting by my mind during sleepless midnights, steady rhythms of rail journeys and everywhere in between. All of them refusing to be ignored until they are committed to paper or some such.
In striving to make writing a habit for my broken brain and challenging myself to up the frequency (vibes, posting, all of it), I came up with Noted.
An outlet to try things without my ego / inner critic banning me from ever hitting publish on a proper post containing them. Because notes are the seeds that we sow, where good things always start, right?
Share your story snippets and idea seeds (if you feel comfortable doing so). I’d love for you to add your own “Notes” in the comments.
Standing facing the sun with my eyes closed. Trees whisper like seas, selling* their secret stories to me.
*That’s a typo, it was meant to be “telling” but “selling” feels like something more and I like it.
From Tilda’s Diary. Written (in her mind) as she stands in the middle of the moors, dogs errant and running wild, again. Committed to paper later that day whilst savouring a glass of something iced and malt themed in her study. Life teetering on the edge of everything changing.
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I’m right on the edge of losing my patience. I can feel my standardly calm temperament drifting away with the characteristics of a fog in a horror story, my normal calm demeanour trading itself for some chaotic kind of business.
It’s like walking on a sand bank with waves crashing at it’s base. Ebb and flow, back and forth, a barrage of salty water sloshing into what’s no longer (and maybe never was) solid ground, threatening to undermine the foundations, I deftly and carefully tread and still manage to send the lot tumbling in.
The result is a mad scramble to hold it all together, or lose pieces of me forever and mournfully watch them float away in the process. I hold a silent sea burial for my sanity.
I prefer to write notes on paper as it gives them more life somehow but quite often I have forgotten my pocket notebook on walks, or else it’s the middle of the night and easier to write on my phone rather than scrabble for a notebook and then face the glaring light of the bedside lamp.
I wanted to write about the way the condensation formed on my window. Teeny tiny little worlds of water formed perfectly. An indoors mist shielding us from the outside world. I wanted to write something clever and articulate and poetic and beautiful. I wanted to write something worthy of that world obscuring wonder. Instead, October teardrops roll down my window pane and that is the best I can do.
On autumn -
The landscape in summer is a constant. During autumn it comes alive like someone whose lips have been loosened by numerous drinks at a party. The stories and tales come thick and fast, bewitching in their nature. Tales of golden grasses and misty mornings, of fog so dense it makes you forget there’s a world beyond it.
If you know someone who would like to read some fairly nonsensical (but oddly charming) words caught from the space around my head, hit the share button!
Your heart and mind open like curtains drifting apart at the hands of a scented evening summer breeze. They momentarily let in an air of possibility. A charge of some seasonal and fleeting magic. Just as quickly, the curtains let loose from the unseeable grasp of the air around, fall and close. Another chapter of recollection ended.
A short ode to stormy weather -
A series of crunch and clungs and clangs and clatter,
as things on roofs, the wind did batter.
Oh daffodil Spring.
If Jackson Pollock and the city of New York co-authoured a season.
Punchy splashes of voluptuous shades of yellow as far as the eye can see. Punctuating the grey that precedes.
Wiped clean by the pillowy splashes of white that follow. Blossom, the great palate cleanser between courses of colour and seasons.