scrawls.

scrawls

still cheaper than therapy*

31.1.11

Think of how they catch the sunlight from the window and gleam, and the edges curl up and firelick into warm. i rinse coffee mugs, two by two, plan to visit the Italians downstairs. Plan laundry again, and glad for it. There is a trivet shaped like a turtle in the key-and-shoemakers' down the street, not the nearest one, i think castiron but big brassy yellow on top, and i have been walking past it for four years, looking at it, and considering. I miss the ones i had before, in my old kitchen, in my old house, in my old life, when everything flowed easily like water, or like sand through a nailed-down hourglass. Instead they are packed in boxes, stacked up neatly, four thousand miles away. I will have them again. From the beginning i said - i will have it again. I am not wrong about these things.

This house is a maybe even hundred years old and my warm air flies out the windows, now (i finally keep a sauna under a blanket), and the old plumbing lays flat, and i have to remember to have the water heater serviced again, and the old housekeeper said that every year she was there, there had been a baby, back when it was our turn - and there has been no new baby since then. I think of the things i can give away, of what i can simplify, how i can find clarity in my space, in notmy space.

Labels: house

scrawled @ 09:04

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23.1.11

I wonder idly what it sounds like in Pamplona, that day, if it's humid or if dust rises in the streets. If i'm dreaming i think i am floating, not far, not high, but enough. If i'm dreaming i think i can't see, they were right after all, before my eyes are open again, and the moment i blink lasts a lifetime. I am not dreaming.

If i step back i see myself tracing paths, i know how it works, and i breathe deep and go on deliberately, lights on, spin up, sail away. (Godspeed.) I know how it works for me, but then i think i always have. Always, so it's become easy to give, and sweet like an apple in morning. Didn't i say i was lucky?

Labels: reflection

scrawled @ 21:48

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17.1.11

a cat in sunshine, a crow on a high breeze. A lizard on a warm rock. I stretch and curl and know i have time left. My skin is oily from long days, my eyes tight from not sleeping, somewhere between my shoulder blades, there is a tightness, and my hips ache. I feel much older than i used to do, and more appreciative, to be found as my own long-forgotten friend. I know i am here. I know this is real. I am grounded by the sore spots, by the graggering of my bones, and grateful for them, in my room of clean white and brown wood and yellow cloth.

Labels: reflection

scrawled @ 09:40

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