Freud believed that ‘a piece of creative writing, like a day-dream, is a continuation of, and a substitution for, what was once the play of childhood.

A lightbulb truth. With writing, and increasingly with teaching, play is its centre for me.
What better answer to the seriousness of life – its joys and sorrows and challenges – than play?

Although today, with my head stuffed full of to-dos and should-have dones, I don’t have the heart for playing. Even reading Anne Carson doesn’t help – my mind struggles to break free of the task-names it holds – what is she saying about Monica Vitti and the sublime?
Perhaps today is not a day for play.

A windy autumn day – my favourite. Later, when i walk across the park to get the kids from school, perhaps the wind will blow the leaves in my head into a pile in the corner.
But now I am going to deal with task #23.

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