Studio LERIAL

The writing below was inspired by an exercise Anthony Anaxagorou discussed in the following podcast episode: London Writer’s Podcast #012: Anthony Anaxagorou– Push Past Self-Doubt and Think Like a Poet

Describe exactly what you see/smell/ hear/etc, right now. Include objects, people, and anything else in your immediate environment.

I can taste the remnants of Original Pringles across my molars, as the tin cradles between my crossed legs. I hear the woosh of cars outside my window. A cough from the office next door. Someone put something in the bin. It’s not bin day. Another woosh from the car. The tapping on plastic keys. Another woosh from a bigger car. Tap tap tap goes the keyboard. Goes my fingers on the keyboard. The metal digs into my left foot. Another, slower woosh from a car. Opposite direction this time. Two in a row. Now two the reverse. The light hits the tress beautifully. A yellowy glow, with the promise of spring. Of warmer days. Can we hold onto hope or anything. These days. Any days. Someone shut the car door. A flicker from a broken lamp I’ve been too lazy to fix. The rev of an engine. The jitter jatter start. There was a man smoking there earlier. I think he offered his neighbour a cigarette. The neighbour proceeds to tell him a mini memoir. “I moved here at 13 and now I’m 63. You made my day.” Yelling down the road. “I’m your neighbour!” “Have a good one” replied the owner of the pack of cigarettes. Clearly wanting to smoke in peace. Waiting for his car to warm up. Overshare. Overspill. If we have no one to talk to. No one to ask about our days, is it inevitable that we overshare? Someone beeped their horn. Pink bedsheets. White linen, three flickers from the broken lamp. There’s a woman stood up, not writing. We are all here to write for 50 minutes. This woman isn’t writing at all. I wonder what her life is. Another flicker from the lamp. Another woosh from a speedy vehicle. She’s wrapped her purple scarf around her neck and headed back to work. She’s married. Had her wedded hand balled up into a fist. She’s now moved it to type. Then she’s moved it back. I don’t know how many car wooshes have occurred in the time I’ve taken to write this. I feel plastic under my finger pads, and that same metal on the left foot. My elbows on my thighs. My toes against soft cotton and linen. I smell nothing. Smell again. Let the air fill the nostrils. What does nothing smell like. It just smells like my room. It’s a few degrees below the temperature where you don’t notice the temperature. Which is to say I’m a bit cold. To make yourself laugh in your writing. I like that feeling like I like making someone else laugh in Spanish.