That’s the sound I made as I fell back down to Earth the other day. Back to real life. Back home. Back to work. Back to black.
Last year I had the summer-end blues. This year the blues are black. Black and blue like the big fat bruise on my thigh where I bumped it against the hideous table in our rented holiday home. An old-fashioned massive wooden table, standing in the dining-room of an even older-fashioned French villa built in 1895, and which obviously hadn’t seen a lick of paint or a new roll of wallpaper since then. Ancient and ugly as hell but perfectly heavenly for us.
It was the place to sleep, to dream, to talk and laugh as we sat on the beige velvet sofa watching the rain pour down outside.
The perfect place to entertain family, friends, kids both big and small. For all of us to eat and drink and sing on the covered terrace. And dance. A bit.
It was a place that creaked and groaned. The shutters clacked against the stone walls. The fridge roared. Our dirty clothes whirred crazily in a jet-engined machine. And dishes clinked in unison inside a cleaning contraption built in the middle ages.
And it was a place to contemplate – life, love, the universe, where to eat dinner, how to tame my fluffy, bleached, holiday hair.
Above all it was the place to forget. About work. About problems . About work problems. Forget how to drive a car or what the inside of a supermarket looks like. Forget about make-up. And jewellery. And the delicious feel of softly tumbled towels or perfectly dry laundry. Forget what an alarm clock sounds like. Or what the shape of an iron or a kettle or a toaster looks like.
But more than that it was the place and the time to neglect this silly compulsive habit. Writing, blogging, posting, commenting. All were pushed to the back of my mind for three whole weeks. That’s the equivalent of three decades in blog years.
Twenty-one days of peace and quiet and paperbacks and magazines and funny TV shows and all that nineties nonsense. Five hundred and four hours of doing other stuff except blogging. Over thirty thousand minutes spent without scribbling on my pet iPad.
That’s a lot of minutes.
No damned wonder I’m feeling down. I missed you, dearest keyboard. I missed the fine mist of words you spray regularly onto this page. I missed the feel of your little white letters sliding beneath my fingertips. Just touching you now, I can feel the darkness lifting already.
I’m not back to black. I’m just back.
Artwork courtesy of Cas van de Goor.