thinking

Mirrors, Musings and Glastonbury Tor

I have received two emails from WordPress recently, both telling me to get my head out of that essay and write a blog post.
In response, I browsed Pinterest and Twitter and Facebook and checked my email a bazillion times before finally arriving at a blank page again.
Why is it that some days my mind is overflowing, brimming with wonderful plans and ideas no matter how down I feel, and other days I am perfectly content but something within me, or perhaps without, has sapped my creativity and my curiosity and torn them to shreds?
I don’t know.
Today I am neither perfectly content nor vastly down, but there are words nevertheless. Transcribed memories, maybe. Senselessness will probably ensue, but I will try to say what I want to say.
I remember some years ago we went to Glastonbury. Not the festival, but the place, stayed in the van there a few nights and went into pretty little hippie shops. There was one shop that sold mirrors, and the mirrors were all over the walls, flashing and throwing distorted images of me around that little room. They all had beautiful frames. I remember them now like the tacky kind you get on 99p hand mirrors, except well made. It occurs to me that tacky things are often lovely things poorly made, like a recipe gone where the viewer can only see what should be.
The other thing I remember about that trip was that we climbed up Glastonbury Tor and it was the most beautiful thing I think I’ve ever seen. There were a few people there, and one was a guy with a drum who just sat there and played the whole time, sort of absently, and it was amazing.
I went and watched the world moving from up there and there was something so still and wonderful and quiet about it with that guy playing the drum.
I’m probably romanticising it in my memory. There were probably horrible parts to that trip I don’t remember. But isn’t it a little amazing that I only remember the good parts? When I’m older I probably won’t remember all the problems that are so important to me now. I’ll remember that I wrote a novel and went to a book club and not the tearing-out-hair moments in between all of that.
I don’t know if I want to forget the bad parts. But they aren’t forgotten, exactly – they merge into the happy parts and make them richer, truer. More.
It is sort of lovely.

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Sort Of Deep

Somebody asked me what the date was yesterday.
It’s a common enough question. But this time it made me think.
It has been two seconds past ten minutes past sixteen hours before. It has been the thirty-first before. It has been January before. It has been this time and this date in this month before. It has been this year before, has been this year for thirty-one days.
It will be all of these things again.
But it will never be exactly this time today in this month this year again. And every minute that comes will never be repeated.
Every second that passes is a second that has never been lived before.
That seems sort of deep.