Home. Safety. Security. Work. Yes, I think mostly work. There are no longer any boundaries between where I live and what I write. Everything is fair game. From the gluten free cakes I bake for my son, to the tussle on the sofa with the man I have only just met. All of it, goose for the gander.
When does it begin, this urge to translate every action, every moment into words? When is it that we first learned to stand outside ourselves? To seek comfort, pain... ecstasy only to satisfy our inner muse?
Work. That is what I think of when I think of home. Down on my knees wiping inexplicable dirt off the skirting boards. Folding and re-folding. Head buried in the scent of all our yesterdays. Work. Home. Home. Work. A child always tied around my neck. Swiping the dust off plaster memories in order to stay alive.
Always this: always drafting words and paragraphs in your minds eye. Always shaping our lives in order to amuse. All true feeling swept under the rug.
And then comfort. Most of all, comfort, because words are what we are made of. The only thing that sustains us. Quotes from our own lives, wrapped like black bands around our heart.
Scrub. Clean. Dust. Live.
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