I watched as one of our neighbours’ grown up daughter chased away a young seagull from their front lawn.
They re-aired the programme about Rimbaud (and Jim Morrison) and I remembered his walking.
I passed The Pelican Bakery on my walk this morning. The door was open wide and the blower was on full blast. No baker, just the two girls and I got a pang after catching the sounds of their easy chat. I fantasise sometimes about belonging to such a life. Are they happy in their work?
I fell. I fell backwards, thinking my seat was there and it wasn’t. It probably looked very funny. But, bless him, he didn’t laugh. He looked so shocked. I cried. I was shocked too and my arse hurt. As it still does. I am too aware of my fragility these days.
I thought about all my books. One day I shall go through them all, particularly the art and picture books, page by page. Perhaps I shall make drawings from them. We have so much, so much that we no longer engage with, so it becomes just stuff.
I tried to explain yesterday and didn’t succeed. I’m a domestic animal. I am reclusive. I live quietly, at home.
I want to see them, all of them. One by one. To re-acquaint myself with their lives. They are my blood, though we have little in common.
My alarm went. I turned it off but went back to sleep. It’s a bugger that. It was the dream that I’d had before, it made me groggy. V. had given me a present but it was a complex one about sparking my imagination and before that we’d been looking through books together, photography books I think. And then there had been food. I can’t eat any of that, I’d said.
