I don’t know how to do them. Or at least write them. For the moment they are clunky, self-conscious. I mean, am I expected to write some sort of overview of what has gone before and then conclude it with a platitude? No, please no. No school girl essays. I want to make this mine. But how?
They are beautiful things, simple and elegant. I just wish I could love the drawings inside them more. I try, but I see their hiccups, their mishaps. But they do sit well on the page.
I caught it once before it was subsumed by clouds. The full moon is coming soon. I feel it in my dreams, and in my dreamy days. It is always so. We talk of post-modernism at breakfast. He becomes wistful. It was so long ago.
We are watching it again. I know its sadness, its deep melancholy but also its beauty. Julie Christie is achingly beautiful in her lostness but it is Gordon Pinsent, and indeed, Olympia Dukasis that outshine, for they are the ones that are feeling and are trying not to. His watching, that endless endless watching, of her is remarkable. And then there is the snow, surrounding and closing them in. It invades my days and my dreams.
According to BBC weather sunrise today isn’t until 7.31am. Too much dark. It is closing in. What can be done about it?
It had obviously been attracted to my glass of orange juice, for I found it in there when I returned from my walk, drowned in it. Poor love. Was it dying anyway, was this its last throes at survival?
The town was smattered with new students, the majority of whom, for some reason were wearing shark hats.
I’ve never really relished them. I need structure to my days and they have none. So I work through them, cleaning, washing and writing. Lying in has never been a habit. Something is lost then, and cannot be reclaimed. And mornings are too precious to be spent.
I’ve always done it. I remember our Nanny telling me so when I was what, four or was it five. I loved her for that. I loved her for recognising it, and acknowledging it to me. In the early hours it is the worst. Then I cannot really see my way through it. When the daylight comes mostly I can. Work is a distraction, again, mostly. It’s a thing, a predilection as he calls it, that must be lived with. There are worse things to bear. So many more…
Are there still adventures to be had, after the work is done? I dreamt of woman who had to go to a prison daily, from which she’d be let out every evening. And how I wanted to make sure that she had a key for her return to the house that we shared. A mirror image, perhaps? Is there more to come? Somewhere else?
It was a gesture of love but I couldn’t match her blitheness. It was all wrong. It went wrong. She’d called during my writing time. I am rigid, overly so, but I hold it so tight this work. It must be so. How could she have known that? And I couldn’t say it. Not then. It unravelled the day.
And then the little boy drowned. Poor little love, to die like that and all alone. His grandfather must be turning it over and over in his head. Rest in peace little one.