I’ve always wanted to be a writer. A good writer. Partly because I love words and the way they can move both writer and reader of all types. But partly if I’m honest ( the new me now) because when well done, it seems it can be portable.
I want to write because I want to hope that I’m half good at it. I want to write because I feel safer behind my words. But in the same breath I don’t think I’m that good at it. Or at best good enough to do the dream.
I don’t remember the small things of my life, my real life. I promise myself I will, but I don’t. I also don’t really remember the details of good enough stuff I read.
I’m listening to Geraldine Brookes giving the first of her four Boyer lectures. It is broadly speaking on the environment and having a sense of place. I usually get turned off by environmental activism as much of it seems to be anti people, anti relationship and anti balance and full of guilt mungering and but you must know generalizations
I like the way she put her acknowledgement of country neatly within the context of her lecture; where it made sense and resonated with the rest of the points she was making. I believe her. I join her in that sentiment wholeheartedly as opposed to watching it sit there like a sixth digit.
I now at the end of that lecture want to go and check that the wheelchair charger that keeps me disabled and handicapped from having any sort of real wilderness experience is off and run the handwashing load that is due as early as possible to make use the natural sunlight to dry things in air.
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