Good morning

I am a morning person. In the morning, I have my best ideas, my best thoughts and contemplations. However, very few people are. So the morning proceeds in outwardly chaos and mental silence and then by the time it's all outwardly quiet again, or nearly, the mind is silent, busy with the thoughts of many a thing to do.

Some people have erotic dreams, where they interact with other people. I have dreams where I'm waking up in the morning and chatting away watching the dawn with a cup of coffee with someone.

I am not moaning, promise. :)

But I do miss that, despite never having had it.

So I have decided to try and dedicate a few minutes a day to recording those thoughts, or make up new ones, before I descend into the mayhem (and positive stimulus) of everyday life.

So, this morning I walked Zoom, my dog, in the usual spot. A big field then willows then the Cam, and many rowers, ice or shine, they row.

On the way back I always walk in front of No. 3 Church Street, where there is a pigeon with wings splayed out, stuck into their prickly bush, just under their living room window.

 Every time I see it I try to remind myself to leave them a note, saying "There is a dead pigeon under your living room window". Then I realise they must have seen it, and perhaps don't fancy unsticking it. Or I just don't feel comfortable doing it, and almost like to see that oddly beautiful shape gorily stuck in such a tranquil scenario our area of Chesterton is otherwise.

I also passed the phone box, which somebody stole money from a few weeks back (I saw the look-out man, the police asked me about it and I told them). Next to it, on the floor, neatly one next to the other, four small bottles of gin. I wondered whether someone sat down and drank them sullenly between the phone box and the BT box, or whether they drank them elsewhere and then placed them there, carefully.

I had other thoughts too, on the way to the river. I thought that the reason I don't like running, especially in the countryside, is that you do it for an aim, you don't do it for the doing. When you run, you don't really look around at what surrounds you.

I realise I have thought for years that i lived at a much faster pace than other people.

Last night, after being completely exalted watching and listening to Sir Roger Penrose at the Chemistry Dept. of the University of Cambridge, and reality kept trying to barge in and destroy that exaltation, I realised I actually live much much more slowly than most people I know: I love so much in the now, that I am often resentful when I am swept away to think about something in the future. I am less annoyed than unprepared for the vortexes that open below me, as I crawl through life, and suck me into the past occasionally, or into a different dimension that is not where I am... it always takes a moment of recollection to return to the present.

I am listening to Vashti Bunyan, she helps me focus on what I write vaguely, while my little one carries on prattling to me. I do love her, but these are my 30 minutes a day, I must fight for them. 

Thirty minutes before I reopen gmail, and reality cascades onto me, take up working on the two three projects again, start reminding myself of places to call,  appointments to look out for... there, it's starting already.

I have laid down a few thoughts, there is no hope of retaining any more, let's close ten minutes early. But tomorrow, I must do this again.