Dangerous words

It’s a perilous game this writing lark.

In the middle of working on a screenplay one day, I had to stop and head off to a meeting on my bike for an. But I didn’t really stop. I took the screenplay along with me in my head and spent the entire ride puzzling over a difficulty with one of the scenes.

I find repetitive movements like cycling and swimming are good ways to solve problems, and that’s not unusual. I know a writer who just paces while dictating to a typist. Joyce Carol Oates goes running. The exercise somehow frees up a part of the brain to work through things in a way that sitting at the desk cannot. Staring at the problem words can get my brain even more stuck. As if it digs into a fixed position as comfortably as my bum sets into the chair.

The problem with cycling out a problem, though, is that my head is off in a fictitious world, whereas city cycling requires all ones wits and groundedness. So there I was on that day, rolling down the street at a good clip, having a great idea for a solution, and I cycled straight through a red light.

Then I was pulled over by the police.

I was genuinely surprised when he told me I’d just run a red light, and felt pretty darned foolish while he wrote down all my details and made it clear that this was all going on record. But he made a point of not imposing a fine. He was a kind, gentle looking man, slightly greying, with concerned eyes creased at the corners with middle age. There was a little bit of Jimmy Stewart about him. Some police are judgemental and enjoy punitive acts - at least the ones on TV are. But this man said, “Imagine if a car had come through the other way.” He was genuinely concerned, and I did not tell him that I had been off with the fairies.

I’ve heard Writers describing the joys of escaping the real world into fantasy worlds of their own creation. But it does make one terribly absent minded. I questioned a writer friend about this, and with experience she’s come to rely on auto-pilot and a sixth sense to keep her out of danger while her head is in her latest novel. But the absent mindedness seems to come with the territory.

To my detriment, as I found last week when auto-pilot and muscle memory failed me. I set off on my bike thinking deeply about a character I was trying to create. It wasn’t until twenty minutes into the ride I realised I was not wearing my helmet. That thing I always wear. Inconceivable. I was far too far from home to go back for it and had an appointment. So I had to continue on. Except now that I was aware of my vulnerability, my riding method changed to slow and ultra cautious, taking every available off-road bike path where possible, and on the lookout for police. 1

But my mind drifted back to the writing, I stopped paying attention and in the middle of the city I was sprung by the police while waiting at an intersection. 2

“Where’s your helmet!” he yelled from the driver’s seat. He looked like one of those cranky types of police that enjoy catching people doing the wrong thing.

So I did my very best impersonation of someone touching their head, rolling their eyes in shock and horror and mouthing an expletive as if realising suddenly only now that they have forgotten their helmet.

I don’t know if he was fooled. The nature of their jobs, the behaviours they’re exposed to daily, probably mean Police have finely honed BS detectors.

I had to get off and walk my bike around the next corner. I made it to the appointment just in time, then to the nearest bike shop as soon as possible for a new helmet.
And not through fear of police, but through dread of head injury.

When I'm old and arthritic and can't cycle any more, I'm going to need my brain to write with.

__________
1. Where I live, helmets are as mandatory as seatbelts and lack thereof is a punishable offence.

2. I manage to always stop for red lights now.

southerly buster

I don’t see you for months. You just go away and leave me unable to sleep at night for missing you, needing you more and more as the Summer wears on.

You’re away so long I’ve forgotten what you feel like.

And then you just blow right in, no announcement, no warning, and turn my home upside down.

My rugs flung across the room and tangled up in lumps by the skirting. Things tossed off tables, important paperwork sent to the floor, out the window. You smash my favourite glass.

And I welcome you in with relief. As you brush my skin, I lean into the delicious sensation and relax. I sigh. I can breathe again.

Hello, old friend, I say, you were deeply missed.

But then I can’t concentrate for all the noise, the bluster, the constant moaning howls from my windows as if the house is haunted. The curtains flying in my face. My hair tangled, in my eyes, I pull strands out from between my teeth. You are relentless, all chaos and noise.

And I am overwhelmed and can’t take it anymore. Stop Shouting! Be still, I say. Can’t you just be here quietly, a gentle, soothing presence? Does it really have to be all or nothing? I love you, I need you and you’re driving me crazy.