August 18, 2013
Short stories at the moment; memoirs; a monologue. The novel has been quietly put aside for now.
Oh it was too red, there was too much of it, it intruded too much into her poor head. And suddenly there was the memory of John Cleese, those different comfortable days. Almost in a spirit of reverence and in memory of the past, she broke off a branch of floweringcherry and stroked the car bonnet rather than hit it. The intrusive red Volkswagen still sitting in her driveway, so blatantly. The following morning. When it had no right to be there. After a beautiful night. Ended so badly. If perhaps she had hit Rio with blossoms it would have been better, not the Chinese vase. And that too was now red. Chinese red. Oh there was too much of all this; she needed to sit quietly and reflect calmly over everything that happened after last night's meeting in the bar. The red Volkswagen was too invasive. No wonder Karen hit it. Anyone would do the same.
Writer since I have been able to hold a pencil. Short fiction mainly, small but intricate. I've tried the novel but became entangled with the footwear, it all became too heavy. Poems, yes. Monologues also. Snippets particularly so.