Writing Straight Up

I have my writing shoes on and am work/walking at my treadmill desk. I love this great concept that incorporates a desktop and a treadmill. My ‘desk’ is fastened to the front bars of mill above the programming modules. I sense that Arthur Slade, the author who introduced me to this idea, must have been a more athletic type than I am. (No pun was intended but I like it so I will keep it.) At first I am wobbling, then doing a drunken two step and now I am marching along. My desk keeps sliding into my belly button and my mouse is on a rampage, spinning and circling like a mad crane. These shoes are made for writing

Ten minutes later....

The physical challenges are under control and the treadmill world is stabilised. I can trot like a horse or plod like a Meg either choice seems to keep the writing going.

I have given the treadmill her own name. It is clear to me that we are going to develop some intimacy as time goes by and I would feel badly referring to her as It. She is Wilda The Walking Wonder. The exciting aspect of my relationship with Wilda, is that she spontaneously introduces inclines in her orientation every once in awhile. I then stumble up hill toward my desk top. This is good. It shakes new thoughts loose and plops them out to be considered.
The monitor is perched on the window sill. Viewing it from eight feet away is odd. As long as I bump up the point size to 18 it’s easy to see. At that distance, there is definitely no screen radiation firing molecules into my system.

The most challenging aspect of this set-up is that I am not linked to Face Book. I wonder, “What am I missing as I stroll along to somewhere going nowhere?” Will I get lonely as I work/walk? A writer is an independent soul but we like to touch the outside world for brief visits. No obligations-just insights into the world.

One hundred and twenty minutes later....

Arthur assured me that the machine would auto stop after an hour but so far this has not happened. I did step off a couple of times because I couldn’t get my wireless keyboard to connect (You have to hold the connect button down for a looonnnnnggg time!). Surely Wilda, didn’t note my departure and up the ante by extending the time before a break.
Do you think my internal editor (Miss Monkey Mind) is messing with the keyboard? Perhaps she is attempting to distract me with wonky equipment functions. Is she afraid to start the process? She knows that the writing today will be strictly stream-of-consciousness and she won’t be able to interfere. Poor Monkey you lose.

From my usual office with a view, I look out over the river to the west and our lovely yard to the east. The treadmill is, unfortunately too heavy to heft up three flights of stairs. The result? I am working in the exercise room which is located on the lower walk-out level. This cedar clad space is not as bright as my upstairs study but smells wonderful. Here I look North. I have a cosy view of a little cobble-stone patio which peeks through the leaves. The forest at this side of the house accommodates a generous gathering of trees. The woody conference is hosted by a seasoned forty foot spruce tree and his Scotch pine relatives. Faithful attendees include: honey bushes, lilacs, elders, three story high Saskatoon berry trees, 14 foot pin cherries, poplars, and other arboreal varieties of unknown origin.

Little birds zoom outside the windows; wrens, chickadees and, at this time of year, nuthatches. They swim in the green shadows eager to collect the pine nuts that fall so generously from the spruce trees. Does it make them spruce nuts if they come from spruce trees? Somehow that sounds rude. The sun beams through the woods, making white on white stripes on the garden chairs that husband Rob made several years ago. These deep seated Muskoka chairs have mellowed in the adversity of weather (as we all tend to do). Now they blend happily into the framework of cobbles, lilacs, Virginia creeper and spruce.

The window is open as I walk and write. I can smell the fecund scent of fall decay. The Baba Yaga in me likes it. It imparts a sense of safety and a promise of renewal. For me smell evokes wonderful images particularly of times past. I must admit though, I hate the odour of rotting pin cherries and their ilk. When this type of berry rots, it tangs of blood not earth.
After several hours of churning her belt Wilda finally tired. I think she did notice my time away to fix the keyboard. It was hours before she stopped to cool her motors and gave me a moment to down some icy limeade and stretch my tight calves.

Ten minutes later....

The break is over and I begin once more. Oops! I almost lost my stream of consciousness there. No, I am not going to pass out. My mouse was moving stealthily toward the spell check icon. “Miss Monkey Mind, behave yourself”, I say. “This is a streaming exercise and you are not invited”. Fortunately the menu bar is too small to read from the mill. I caught the trap as I leaned forward and squinted at the monitor. And thus I am saved.
There are lots of typos and goofy sentences staring back at me from the screen. The urge to spell-check and edit is almost overwhelming. My fingers are not used to the rocking of walking while writing.

Sixty Minutes Later....

Walk. Walk. Walk. Work the body work the brain. Wilda, my purring companion and I have taken the first steps toward new adventures. I feel so good that I promise Monkey Mind I will spell check tomorrow.



The sun has paled and the birds are at rest. I’ll leave you to muse on my journey to nowhere that is somewhere in my heart. I know I will continue with my Writing Straight Up.