Freewriting through disaster

27/09/20 – 19:36

It’s taken me far too long to physically start writing this evening.  It took two minutes to handwrite the correct time for the title and then another six minutes to take a photograph of my writing environment for this sitting.  But I’m here now; many thoughts going through my head and not enough hands to put them to paper before they disappear.  I have a random playlist from Spotify playing on my phone.  I felt that with my new desk, table lamp and dimmed-down brown lightbulb (E14 LED) creating the ambience, I would break out my blue Parker fountain pen and use the supplied blue ink to scribe into my blue Ted Baker notebook.  A little light relaxing chamber music would do the trick.  Currently, Cecilia String Quartet with Antonia Dvorak are playing Waltzes, OP. 54, B.15: I. Waltz No. 1: Moderato and I have very little clue what I have actually written down.  I know a waltz from my dancing days and I know what a string quartet is.

The tiny droplets on the outside of my glass of Bailey’s fall delicately down the faceted edges toward the clear coaster that sits atop the desk.  I can only see four of the six ice-cubes breaching the surface, sitting there, smooth as ice.  Literally.

My idea of freewriting is to write freely.  My idea of a blog is to write interesting things for me to look back on and contemplate.  My idea of creative nonfiction is to pad out the freewrite into a blog with deep research and insightfulness.  Yet tonight, I know I won’t be researching.  However, I do know that by the time this academic year is over, I will have worked out what entries to edit, which ones to delete and which ones to add research to.  For instance, as previously mentioned, Au Père Tranquille will be looked into further.  Then there’s fountain pens and typewriters.  Possibly one of the revolutions of France.  I think also evolution of blogs or at least a deeper understanding of creative nonfiction whereby genres become blurred and blended.

I’m not aiming for a story based on fact and historical accuracy.  I’m not trying to create a biography (or even an autobiography). I know I shan’t be using poetry or writing a script.  I am merely trying to create a piece of work that emulates a diary, including desires and broken dreams, yet ties in with my visits to Paris.  I also want to explore Paris more.  Not just her history or beauty, but her inner-most thoughts.  What makes Paris, Paris?  What is it about her that retains my interest?  This section should be at the beginning. This paragraph, well, the previous four sentences, should be the prologue to this writing.  Maybe I’ll incorporate it into the blog’s front page; the first post.  I expect I won’t thought.  By the time this is read, I suppose you will know whether or not I did it.  And yes, that’s the fourth window I’ve just broken.  Why?  Because what use is a book if nobody reads it?  Aside from propping up a wonky table or killing a spider?

I do like learning.  Sometimes, I even learn from my mistakes.  Not all the time, mind you.  Isn’t that what makes life a little more exciting?  Yes, my relationship has once more taken a bashing. Something that I did about five years ago has come back to haunt me.  I should’ve seen it coming and to some extent I did.  My inertia to rectify an issue has yet again cost me my relationship with my French girlfriend.  I think it’s totally over for sure this time.  There’s no accidentally popping down to her office now.  No following her on to the Tube on the way home.  She’s removed herself from my Instagram and therefore can’t see my posts on my private account.  The other accounts I have?  She probably won’t remember them and therefore won’t see anything even if I did a subtle post.  Every message I have sent to her since has been shot down in flames.  I’m a liar and don’t respect her, apparently.  Personally, I think that’s harsh.  Yes, a while ago I lied, but that was self-preservation from a situation she didn’t understand.  Similarly, there have been times she’s felt disrespected and once she gets her Marseillian head on, everything is taken out of context and no amount of discussion will get her to listen.  My only chance of a reconciliation is for her to miss me (which won’t happen) or for me to tap away, ever so slightly, over however long a period of time it takes.

Which leads me back to Paris and my visits.  How can I go without her?  Even on the overnight bus for a day to write and obtain cultural references and points of note.  Yes, I have had this year’s visit which was nice; especially after she went home and we didn’t see one another for a few months.    When she’s with her family, I rarely exist.  One or two conversations were initiated by her.  Evenings would come and go with barely a toilet text.  I knew the situation and whilst accepting it, I am never happy with it, at all.  Cultural differences.

And as the light begins to hurt my tired, sleep-deprived eyes, I shall draw a conclusion to this little entry by providing a rare view of my statistics.

Number of question marks used: 8

Number of sentences beginning with “And”: 2

Usage of the word “little” (not including this one): 4

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