Wind (259)

 I woke wanting to yield. I woke with the intention of succumbing to what is. I woke wanting to be good. But then came the wind. I felt like nothing. A non thing, a no thing. A leaf, a piece of jetsam, tossed. I couldn’t kick the bar, it was too strong. It jammed me against the wall of the Alexandra Hall. Hard against the stone. My legs became jelly. I stayed on the pavement side and crept, hands stroking wall, clutching. I am determined. I am resolute. Watch out for that corner. It is like a wind tunnel that one. The one just by what used to be the Aber Diner and is now something called The Electric. The scaffolding on what used to be the Town Hall rattles. It comes in gusts. I am blown thrown, jostled, nudged, battered and bashed. I have no gravity. My feet do not hold the ground. By the castle I have to crawl along clasping, grasping at the rail. Enough, I shout. Cursing. I used to shout on my bike to school. Shouting at the wind. Yesterday, when it was there but less violent there was a young man dancing. He was dancing on what we call the ship. It is a little balcony overarching the beach and looking out to sea. It looks like a prow of a ship. Hence, the ship. And he was dancing there at 4 am, his hands in his pockets. His feet doing all the work. Round and round like a helicopter seed. An eddy-ing. Head down, absorbed.

Under the bandstand canopy lies an umbrella, capsized, water-logged, its frame broken. One spike pointing upwards, the rest kaput.

I couldn’t walk to the harbour. I almost cried with frustration. My feet couldn’t move. I was scared. I was thrown against bins, cars, grabbing at wind mirrors, drainpipes. So undignified. You promise me you’ll be careful, he says to me. You promise? I do. I do. So I give up and I am devastated. I want to walk. I want to walk my path. And then I remember the vow to yield. To succumb. I take the back way home stopping for a moment on the crest of the little hill looking down on Llanbadarn Road. A wild night still. No one is out. Except me. I like it that way. That is what I seek. I walk beyond the turning for our road. Down towards Llanbadarn. The wind is still strong, even here. The trees whirl about, pulling at their roots.

Yesterday, outside The Angel, a student in a toga on a mobile phone.

Looking out of the window of my studio as I write I can see the wind is dying down. The fir trees jostle and the birds have taken to the sky again. Earlier there was none. None flying. They’re not stupid.

I have them in every room. Hyacinths. I want the smell. Sometimes sweet, sometimes cloying, sometimes almost rancid. A visceral smell. I love it. I love the first sweetness of it.

There are things I must do. Paperwork. All the evaluation stuff. Important work, but in this fog of bleakness hard to get to grips with. I will do it. I always do. Meanwhile, he has a bad back. He is not resilient. He takes to his bed. I cajole and try to cheer him. Be kind. Always be kind.

I forgot she’d died. Jenny Diski. I mourn her all over again.