Misfits #3: spoonfuls of spells

I have been try­ing to decide whether we would drink cof­fee, tea or some­thing stronger. Caf­feine addict that I am, the tempta­tion would be to serve extra strong cof­fee and then gabble away nine­teen to the dozen until deep into the night, only retreat­ing to our beds at dawn once we had revealed far too much, shed too many tears, reached a point of acute embar­rass­ment and put the entire world to rights.

What are you like when you’re wired? Tell me.

So at the moment, hav­ing thought about this far too much con­sid­er­ing I’m not sure when or indeed if it will ever hap­pen, I’m favour­ing huge mugs filled to the rim with hot, sweet tea. There’s no rush, or there shouldn’t be. We will try and take a moment to reflect, to tread del­ic­ately through each other’s psyche, not stray­ing from the path until we’re tent­at­ively given the first per­mis­sion to do so. Let’s relax, clasp our fin­gers round the warm­ing ves­sels and thaw out in company.

What are you like when you’re calm? Tell me.

There’s the tempta­tion to talk and to never stop, now that we’re finally all here. But no, go to sleep early. Please. We need to rest and recharge and recu­per­ate within our own heads. Because tomor­row the smell of fresh cof­fee will be per­col­at­ing our senses all day. By the even­ing, we’ll be sit­ting sur­roun­ded by screwed-up paper, our cheeks aflame with edgy laughter. We will have resor­ted to writ­ing on the walls, uncar­ing about the sur­face scrawls because the next day’s coat of paint will be another step in this pro­cess of enthu­si­ast­ic­ally unrav­el­ling ourselves.

Cre­at­ing rather than think­ing. Because. Because this is what we do: we cre­ate, in each and every sense of the word. That’s the secret we always knew about each other, but which we could never dare to phrase so blatantly or so boldly until this moment. Until we were sat huddled over this scratched and rick­ety table, immersed in our glee­ful con­spir­acy of whis­pers and smiles and widen­ing eyes, shar­ing know­ing glances and in-jokes like we’re the old­est of old friends. Shar­ing them as if they had been points of ref­er­ence for years, rather than ideas that had only spilled out of our minds and into our mouths mere minutes before.

When shall we three meet again? In thun­der, light­ning or in rain? In sun­light, moon­light or arti­fi­cial light?