Prompt 1 {Outside my window}

Although it is hard to see right now I can imagine what is out there, in the dark. Lurking behind the frosted pane, stark grey landscapes and shattered shapes splay across its frigid surface. I bundle up tightly against the imagined ill wind that blows with a relentless ferocity pummeling the age-old shingles of my tiny home.

No, I can not feel that imagined bitter wind and biting cold because thankfully I am inside, ensconced in a bundle of cloth and an assortment of scarves blankets and housecoats. A mad array of items which provide me with a weighty protection against that crazed angry wind. A mass of fabrics that would, by comparison, make a very swaddled babe, even one which was swaddled in a very proficient manner by a professional swaddler seem to the casual observer to be nothing more than a loose collection of garments cast in a haphazard manner in the general direction of a newborn trapped in a snowbank. 
In short dear reader, I am warm and snug as a bug in a rug, an analogy which although lyrical in its ability to rhyme does bring a specific unease to mind when you consider just how long these damn windows will remain closed against fresh air and a general heave-ho of all the many-legged things that have I am sure managed to crawl into crevices seeking a respite from the same winter that I seek.

It is only December, well for the next 3.5 hours anyway, and here I am in a ball of sweat surrounded by a gradually growing mass of expended kleenex plotting the year ahead. Visions of eating clean healthy foods, waking each morning to silently sit in calm and beautiful meditative states, leaving my pillow only to engage in deeply connected rhythmic Yoga asanas. Imaginings of myself, free of the vices of wine, cheese dairy and cookies, drifting across the beach resplendent in a tasteful flowing sundress, my alluring grey locks flowing in the gentle breezes seduce my ego.

In my mind's eye, I envision myself painting my walls and stripping the floors of my humble abode. Addressing spring with enthusiasm and strength, digging a garden out of the hardened clay and rock-laden earth with a fervour and diligence that would make even the most devout vegan hippy lay down their handwoven baskets and stare in awe of my determination as I plant my organic garden from which I will dine on the raw good stuff, foods that hold the promise of nourishment for both mind and spirit. In my fevered delirium, I can see myself undertaking each task however onerous with joy and acceptance, a calm, clean, collected representation of all that is good, wise and womanly.

Accepting each sag and slouch each wobbly floppy slop of skin and my ever-deepening wrinkled facade with grace and gratitude placating myself with such sage sayings as " be grateful to be ageing, not all are afforded such luxury" and rot like that.


But let's be honest here I suspect that it is not going to be that focused or easy. In fact, based on my prior experiences with these things, namely approaching ill-advised tasks requiring my applied effort and ageing gracefully,  I can only imagine the horrors this continued segway into senility and decomposition will bring. And I know also that although I will no doubt start out in the fresh bloom of spring with shovel in hand and a bundle of seaweed and seeds in tow that the likelihood I will actually manage to follow through and plant anything let alone remember to weed and water that lot is somewhat suspect if not just yet another rather obvious lie I tell myself to feed the fantasy that I am somehow going to "become the change I want to see in the world".

Alas it is more likely that I will start out the coming year with the best of intentions, and perhaps if I really try I mean really really really apply myself to the road ahead with the same dedication and aplomb with which I pursue my twin lusts for the acquisition and consumption of fine wines and chocolates,  I might just manage to straddle, NAY triumph over at least one of the roadblocks to success which surely lay ahead. I might just actually be able to remain committed to this writing thing and meet the goal of throwing out a sentence or two a day in the year to come.

After all, writers are supposed to be messy self-loathing piles of sweat bathed in wine engorged with an assortment of chocolates and cheese...aren't they? 

Move over Hemmingway mad Andrea is on the way!