It is now two days since I
decided to largely retreat to my book-lined study.
My intention was simple: to
force myself into calm; to find a level of purpose and concentration that would
allow me to think and, above all, to write. I wanted to establish a new habit
of creativity. And in order to help me achieve that, I promised myself I would
update this online journal everyday until the end of the month.
So far, I have spent my time variously
reading, thinking and staring out of the window, although not necessarily in
that order.
In the last forty-eight hours
the weather has turned from a reluctant sunshine to dank and rainy English
summer conditions. Today, a persistent drizzle bothers the rooftops across the
courtyard. The grey clouds overhead seem to have made themselves at home, as though
having made the effort to arrive here they are now reluctant to leave, and
consider this place as good as any other to dump their burdensome load.
A springer spaniel barks a
regular intervals, a living clock that has taken over time-telling duties from
the stopped watches collected in my drawer. I can hear the sound of bins being
dragged across potted paving slabs. Yesterday, a horse and carriage made its
way, unseen by me, along the main road, its shod feet clattering on the
surface as it went.
No artist’s room is ever
disconnected from the world around him or her. Life still intrudes. Even Proust
was beset by thousands of letters and social callers after he withdrew from the
Parisian social whirl. In my study, too, the lines of communication remain
open.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I
intend to pick up my pen or, what amounts to the same thing, dust off the
keyboard, and begin writing.
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