To write you have to be on the edge, on the cusp. You are both IN the infinite moment – parts and whole swimming deliciously around inside each other – and OUTSIDE it, observing, because if you stayed in it you’d do nothing else but be gloriously blissed out.
And it takes time, so you have be brief even if you’re long-winded. Timelessness, though, IS the experience.
But my best times are when the thing almost writes itself, the words emerging freely as do the sounds of the wind, the birds, the Harley and the chooks next door, and the feel of the sun, the sight of the bees and the moving shadows.
I think of my morning Reports from the Verandah as like Alistair Cook’s Letter From America (for those of you who remember that) – which were always the same, delivered in that mild slow amused tone of voice, and always different, addressing this or that issue – the election or some local stupidity, someone caught with their pants down, literally or figuratively.
His vantage point was that of an Englishman observing America, and like his, mine is that of an outsider – while I’m writing I do not believe in anything, neither your beliefs nor my own. No cultural mindset, just a free gaze … innocent.
What just happened? A tiny grub wanted to make friends, and here is its photograph!