Let me set a scene for you:
There is a round bed in the far right corner of a room. The bedclothes are in disarray. There is a door just to the left of the bed in the far wall and it opens upon the sea.
It is cloudy but the sun’s ghost lingers in the clouds’ confluent ripples. The sea is the color of winter skin, though alive and vibrant, murky, promising kept secrets. There is music and the bustle of hawkers’ voices and the deep groaning of the wind on tin roofs. Through the open door by the bed you can see the fishing skiffs, and farther out, past the breakers, the three-masters, the schooners.
It is hot and humid and the air smells of salt and rain.
There is a small table to the right of the bed, against the right wall. There is a neat pile of books beneath an oil lamp.
There is sun then, shafts like searchlights, far out, casting the deeps in momentary brilliance.
And then it begins to rain, and the n
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Showing posts from November, 2004
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The wind blew me back, via Chicago, in the middle of the night.
I'm enjoying a necessary melancholy, awaiting either the catalyst or the renewal. Bitter searching of the heart, alone and pensive, I've ringed my room with lights.
I went to a cabin with Chris and Amy and Adam and Sarah over the weekend. I loved it so much that it hurt me when I left it. I was able to take a breath, enjoy the manageable beauty of November, make fun of Chris and Adam...I'll write a full trip account if I feel the need.
There's so much going on. All I have is vague whispers. I feel impatient, like I want to get everywhere quickly, but I really have nowhere to go. (Will it really happen this time. I feel, in a way, that it already has, but I've yet to absorb it, for then I'd be lost.)
There's a weekend, and there's hope. As L.C. said, I chose my journey long before I came upon this highway.
Sadness=beauty=truth.
I saw the clouds in a different way, and