every little thing

So yes. About this report I’m writing. It’s nothing special. In fact, I can try to enjoy the writing process (though I'm not sure if I can type through it with my CD player playing). And what am I to do with my stack of CDs yet to be listened to! The weather is too nice outside and it makes me think I ought to be doing something productive in the sense of building something or giving bread to somebody rather than dancing around on my keyboard and hearing myself think out loud.

Lucy Maud Montgomery likes to say… “Well, this is nice… and look, that is nice… and how we had such fun… and it’s another rainy day… and I did this nice thing for this person and that thing for that nice person. (She doesn’t write like this exactly. My stupid tone captures nothing of the depth of her world). But what I mean is, you don’t always have to record ‘things’. You can just write about whatever's in your head. It’s like there’s this liquidy little ball thing that moves within my head so that whenever I type in my diary I just let this little ball take me to wherever. It’s all in my mind. Wherever I go. No matter the colour of the ceiling I’m sitting under or the texture of the table I’m writing on or the view beyond my window, it isn’t so much what they are but what I make of them. I don’t think I’m very good at recording the colour of the ceiling or the pattern of a dress or the way the petal of a flower curves and bends, but I can tell you quite accurately how this little ball moves inside my head while I watch over every little thing.