My Words, My World

First drafts – A few pages in the large wilderness of the world of writing

Archive for the tag “coffee”

23 Sep 2020

A Wednesday stream of consciousness

An on-off night and a mosquito in my ear and I fumble in the dark and then it disappeared but now the night has gone for good for me as I lay there and think of what I have to do, what I probably should do and what I’d like to do and all the while a soundtrack is playing in my head and it’s Manfred Mann’s version of The Mighty Quinn which is not a bad song at 5.30 in the morning, although I’m yawning but now I really want to hear it but that means getting up and using technology and 5.30’s far too early for technology, after all, I’d only check the news and see big, fat Mike Pompeo bully another sick and twisted little country with sanctions, sanctions and, ah! stick your sanctions up your ass, fatty, so it’s no technology for me, like a smoker avoiding his first cigarette to let his lungs breathe, you see, and now I’d love a coffee now I’m up with the birds but I guess putting on the kettle is still technology but I could really use that coffee while my pencil scrawls my morning scribble across an unwritten page.

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22 Aug 2020

Narrowing options

I woke up a shade after 7 with The Kinks’ “Apeman” swinging through my head, so who knew what type of butt-clenching merry-go-round of a day lay in store.

The night had left my brain feeling like pizza dough.  I sat on the closed toilet doing nothing, staring at nothing; that middle space where nothing exists, probably the same place cats stare at for hours on end, and contemplated the great debate of the hour: tea or coffee.  When I got to the kitchen the debate was decided, there was no tea.

A day of narrowing options lie ahead.

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19 Jan 2018
2 Comments

My pen

The morning after the night before. Which is good, it means you’ve survived. Lived to tell the tale.

My tongue licks sawdust and cries out for coffee. I agree and duly oblige. My tongue cries out again when I put the steaming cup to my lips.  I think of my plans for the coming day but nothing materialises. It seems too large a step from where I am now to where I should be later.

My mind is grey, a bit like the January day which sits heavy outside my window; even the birds are reluctant to make themselves heard over the nothing in the air. Everything is flat, except my tongue.

The day seems to be wrapped in cellophane and I am the Clingfilm Kid. Get off your horse and make a Western out of that.

I’ve no revolver but my pen works fine and that’s something to go on with.

Posted in Blog, Creation, images, imagination, stories, story, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , ,
28 Jul 2016
5 Comments

Bukowski: the morning after the night before

I got up. I couldn’t sleep, I just lay there sweating, tossing and flapping like a freshly-caught fish. Booze does that to you. You think it’ll knock you out; that you’ll sleep like a kitten for the night but then you awake on a sweat-wet pillow, and then it’s finished.

I lay in bed an hour or so, unable to shut my head up. The room was dark but in my head someone had flipped a switch. Transitory thoughts, each following the other down the fuddled highway of my mind, flickered on and off, on and off. What I had to do today. What I had to to this week. What? Whatever.

I got up, grabbed my book, made a coffee and made myself comfortable on the cold leather sofa, and lost myself in story.

I had a heavy chest and a cough that wouldn’t come, my airways blocked by too many cigarettes accompanying too many drinks throughout a drunken evening with drunker friends and a happy barman. My mouth was layered from beer, from wine, from gin, from the back shelf where no one sober goes.

The coffee steamed on the coffee-table (what if I drunk tea?) but I drank it, hoping to change the thick, stale, toothpaste-on-alcohol taste in my mouth. My throat burned but something moved. My chest moved. I coughed: it sounded like Tom Waits singing. That was an improvement.

Early morning coffee with Bukowski. I finished the first short story and stared at the page a while before closing the book and closing my eyes.

The Most Beautiful Woman in Town had just died.

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