The sun has come out from behind the dirty dishwashing-water sky and my life, my day, the city are instantly fired up and made beautiful - again - in brightly gorgeous-golden sunshine.
Which makes it more difficult to remain put at my table, despite that it's pushed up against the floor-to-ceiling-window that I write at, where I take photos almost every day, of The Mountain.
The table is glass, on aerodynamic - read spindly - silver-plated legs, which means it does not in any way detract from the sense of spaciousness that I work hard at maintaining so as not to feel claustrophobic, ever.
I bought the table secondhand at month-end, for my birthday.
From this space of 'mine' I can do anything, I can go anywhere. Really. This is all I need in the world.
On the table I have the following:
1 candlestick holder
1 cyclamen in full pink bloom
1 tiny pot flowing over with angel's tears, more commonly known in SA as peace in the home
1 morning pages book, open and filled with my loping, blue-ink handwriting
1 Sony Vaio netbook that's way past its sell-by date
1 handwritten to-do list
1 cup of coffee with accompanying plunger, and
5 books that I'm reading:
Richard Rive, a partial biography; by Shaun Viljoen;
Chronicle of a Death Foretold by Gabriel Garcia Marquez (the Meister who died last week);
The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle;
On Writing, Stephen King; and
Dorothea Brande's classic 'Becoming a Writer'.
It's a beautiful day now; even so I have learnt that nothing will ever be achieved unless one puts in the time.
And that's mostly behind the scenes, at a secret desk, with your butt on the the chair; especially on a public holiday, when everyone else's at the beach.
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