i surprise myself sometimes. sometimes upon reading back my words i think, was that really me, did i really write that? did such things really happen?
and yes, yes i did, yes they did, and the reading takes me back to it, to the feeling of that feeling, the taste of that time, the lay of the land, the scent of it all and I think , hey despite your flakiness, your capriciousness, your lack of moderation, you’re not so so bad , when it comes to words.
on days off, rare days of solitude and quiet, she spends her time in the middle room on the topmost floor of the old creaking house. writing at a small desk and being able to look out of a large window makes her feel very lucky. in this room especially it is as if she is in a ship at sea. nothing is static. she is on a level with the tree tops that sway and amongst the clouds as they scud by and as high as the rooks as they leave with the morning and return with the dusk. over the way a huge house is being built. it is incredibly ugly and although she is glad that there seem to be no windows facing her own across the fields, she cannot contemplate building a house without as many windows as is possible. she sing-sighs to herself , what about the light, the light, the light. and she knows it will be another big house with another tiny, oh so manageable garden, that inside it will be full of granite work tops and predictable decor and beige furnishings and a huge fridge and whatever else it is that is the latest must have. and even though her policy has always been each to their own, she feels sad that so many people want to live in such places as a mark of their success. that they choose to inhabit a big and imposing square alarmingly close to another big and square house, complete with double garages and not much land in which to plant and grow and watch things. people are strange, she thinks.
today she has taken picture after picture of things to sell. she has read part of a book which grabbed her by the title ( the girls of slender means ) but which has not quite grabbed her by the heart. she has painted her toe nails a bright coral which is neither pink nor orange and she has thought once again about memory, about the passing of time and the writing of stories. the lives in them and the life they take once they are set free into the world. she wonders whether her whim to abandon capitals is merely an affectation or actually quite a good decision, meaning that she can type more quickly without the need to stop and majuscule. the silvery image of words emanating from fingertips like drips of water from hands in a bath captivates her for a moment or two.
she has a secret. one so big and huge and full of its own life that were she to share it – were she to allow it to walk amongst her day to day – the rest of her life would come tumbling down. at times this secret has felt like the greatest joy, the giddiest ride. a blossoming, an opening , an enlightenment. a golden mend. a smile across the face of beauty. a cryptic game of words and signs, of maps and stories. but secrets beg to be discovered. they fester under rocks and when hidden deep they rankle tender hearts. they long for the open air and sunlight. they yearn to be the very thing thing they are not – overt – as conspicuous as a lover’s flushing cheek. they crave their freedom. she does not want to be a jailor, in fact it is the very last thing she would choose to be. she is, after all, air of air and like the daring young men on the flying trapeze, she seeks grace and truth and freedom more than anything else.