When the sun becomes shrouded in a haze of grey clouds and the winter winds blow through the trees, I fear the worst…
Infected with “seasonal blues”, I can always feel my fingers longing to reach for the phone, leading me to the pulling of a “sickie” and spending the day in the depths of a bed rot, with a book in my hand, sipping on a hot coffee.
In the same way that you would pair a juicy steak with a heavy shiraz, I long to pair a cup of tea with a good book the second I see as much as a cloud. But capitalism is a cruel mistress, and she bests me every time, the slog of a commute in the rain, the wind blowing the eyebrows clean off my face and the pure dread of human interaction hangs over me on a cold day just like … well, you know.
As a poet I find it easiest to allow my mood to guide me when I begin working on something. I’ll pull apart my memories like fairy floss and if it’s storming outside you can almost guarantee I’ll be pulling from the sad drawer.
I used to find it easiest to read and write under the cover of night, where my mind is levelled out enough so that there was no inherent bias within me as to what I might choose to write about.
My hands would move, and the words would just come.
Nowadays I allow the weather to choose for me, although that’s not to say it’s impossible to be sad and lonely on a sunny day; it’s difficult and requires dedication but trust me, it can be done, and I will say crying in the sunshine does indeed feel like a bit of a cardinal sin.
On a cold day when my toes freeze, my grip on everything becomes a little tighter. Like shaping something out of clay, I let my fingers on the keyboard match the pitter patter of the rain as the sky and I find synergy, and days later I’ll open the document and think, Jesus Christ, is she okay?
Sometimes it’s simply a fact that writing is a lonely exercise, alone with your thoughts for hours at a time, collaborating with every version of yourself to piece something together. As you make more space in your head for a story that can grow bigger and bigger, it’s as though there is too much space to occupy. When a blue sky is normally so lidless, the comfort of clouds offers a snugness as they tuck themselves around our homes.
Though I may complain about the seasonal blues that seep into the walls and latched on from the moment I heard my alarm blaring in the early hours of the morning, along with the sound of trees snapping in a blistering wind, sitting in the Busybird office and watching through the window the weather weave (in a classic Melbourne fashion) between rain and shine, I’ve had two minds about which thoughts need to be bottled and stored on the page today.
But why shouldn’t they all blend?
All of this is not to say that as a writer my ability to do so solely depends on the weather. It’s just easier sometimes to craft pieces you may normally cringe at when the wind is howling against your building, screaming at me to be braver. The darkness of the clouds whispers that they understand, the rain patting you on the shoulder as if to say, “You’re not alone.”
Cleo Docker
Tuesday Intern