Today I didn’t much want to go to work. (Nothing special, I know, bear with me here.) I was tired when my alarm went off, and though I told myself the sky was a glorious blue I didn’t much fancy entering into the day. I’m an introvert, and being in an open plan office wasn’t what I most desired. I’m trying to finish a novel and working today would get in the way.
Obviously, I got up and I went to work. This stuff is just normal, like I said. But, actually, just normal is a luxury.
The last 5 years when I’ve been fighting to continue working I’ve wondered almost daily whether I was just being lazy, whether what I was experiencing was what everyone experienced when they fancied a day off and at home, when they were a bit unsure of themselves before a big meeting, when they had better things to do. Continue reading “A Normal Day at Work”
Here they are.
The purple one was given to me three years ago in a dusty basement room in Marylebone, where I sat, shaking and crying. I imagine it had once been owned by a child and discarded. It is pretty, but small and nondescript, the sort of trinket that gets thrown away. I imagine that that child was the son of the elderly man who handed the rock solemnly to me. I have no idea where in the world it came from first of all.
The white one I picked up on the Aiguille des Petits Charmoz above Chamonix, in the middle of last week. It had been released by rock fall, probably never before touched by a human hand. I know its heritage as a trinket precisely. Continue reading “A Tale of Two Chunks of Rock”