Sunday Ramblings: What the nets hauled in
There is a space in my head I would like to leave empty just for the times when I feel suffocated, when all spaces have been filled to the brim and I am too tired to spring clean. I just like having it, this empty white room with large windows that open up to anywhere I can dream of, and often I would visit it. Push open the large wooden doors into this vast space of possibilities and sit, dependent upon mood, at a corner. I look around and see familiar spaces. There is the bean bag and the coffee table I sat on while talking to Keith Moon, and there is that old antique telephone I used to sit by, waiting for Heath Ledger to ring but he never did, instead I he waved at me from the little boat out in that blue ocean as I looked out the window. He had a large placard where he wrote his address on and below it he scrawled “write me”. I did, I wrote him a long letter sitting right there.
Then there is the space where that flamboyant couch, out of place, damp, mouldy and old, sits. The couch where Oscar and I had tea with cucumber sandwiches on. I drag that couch out from time to time.
There is a little secret door in that room I hardly tell anyone about, but it leads out to a cliff and on that cliff is a rock where I sometimes sit with coffee and cigarettes to ponder upon the thoughts that have been made concrete in the other parts of my head. And from here I can see the fishermen in their wooden boats casting out their nets in the sunset. Then they would lie, looking up at the sky till dawn comes and they would haul in their catch and row to shore. It is then too I would haul my nets out into the vast blue sky and see what sort of thoughts my silvery net can haul in.
Like them, most of the time the catch is small and I have to chuck it back. But then once in a while, when the sky is clear and the stars are twinkling I haul in Moby Dick. Now if only I can turn that into a book, but until then it sits in the space like that huge book on my bookshelf waiting to be devoured.