Writing is a thing which requires stillness, sitting, and not being distracted. This is the problem, has always been the problem with writing. There are so many things to do, so many wonderful distractions. There are periods in life when the only time you find to write is when you are waiting. Just now I am waiting for a bicycle to arrive, at which point I will go salsa dancing. Whilst riding bicycles, and whilst salsa dancing, writing is almost entirely out of the question. I try and collect these moments, so that when I finally get time to sit in front of a computer screen, I can pull them out and examine them. It takes a long time, and many of these moments have gone stale in my memory, whilst others have aged like wine. Some are lost, many turn up at unexpected moments.
There is an urgency now, if the bicycle doesn't turn up soon, I will have to find another plan, head footwards to salsa, perhaps moving my hips a little more than normal in preparation, until a small boy in a school uniform gives me a strange look, at which point I will most likely pretend that I'm stretching out a sore hip.
Last night we went to see live jazz. Up in that small room, the saxophonist requested, in his Spanish accent, that if we wanted to talk, we should go 'out the door to the other ambiance'. He then proceeded to play self-indulgent solos that went for too long, whilst the keys, double-bass and drums had their own conversations behind him. When someone else did a solo, he would walk off stage and sit down somewhere. We watched the band, a little uncomfortably, doing our best to enjoy the talent and inventiveness of the musicians despite the obstruction of this ego. On the way out of this place, we espied a Ugandan dance party. Perfect remedy, we danced along until everyone was gone. The next day, we went to a market for Ex-pats, a pocket of Jane Austen-esque ostentatious opulence. Then to an israeli cafe where we thought about eating but decided against it. A strong coffee at a table full of Dutch architects, spicy tea and momos, the delicious Nepali dumpling. We don't question the strangeness any more.
There is an urgency now, if the bicycle doesn't turn up soon, I will have to find another plan, head footwards to salsa, perhaps moving my hips a little more than normal in preparation, until a small boy in a school uniform gives me a strange look, at which point I will most likely pretend that I'm stretching out a sore hip.
Last night we went to see live jazz. Up in that small room, the saxophonist requested, in his Spanish accent, that if we wanted to talk, we should go 'out the door to the other ambiance'. He then proceeded to play self-indulgent solos that went for too long, whilst the keys, double-bass and drums had their own conversations behind him. When someone else did a solo, he would walk off stage and sit down somewhere. We watched the band, a little uncomfortably, doing our best to enjoy the talent and inventiveness of the musicians despite the obstruction of this ego. On the way out of this place, we espied a Ugandan dance party. Perfect remedy, we danced along until everyone was gone. The next day, we went to a market for Ex-pats, a pocket of Jane Austen-esque ostentatious opulence. Then to an israeli cafe where we thought about eating but decided against it. A strong coffee at a table full of Dutch architects, spicy tea and momos, the delicious Nepali dumpling. We don't question the strangeness any more.
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