It was the wrong direction – morning was rising from the wrong direction. Or was it something else? It was an eerie light. A light that looked wrong. Was it a fire? Was that smoke? I keep my nose trained – lifting it up to pick up that sharp rancidness. Were my eyes smarting? Or was it all a figment of my imagination? Perhaps morning had decided to rise in the West instead. It swirled around. I could see it caught under the streetlight. A mist. Not smoke but mist. It hung heavy until about 6.30 am when the sun from the East began to catch the eaves of the roofs on the houses beneath Cae Melin. It’s all gone now and the sun shines.
I sat out again yesterday afternoon, reading. What pleasure it gives me. I didn’t expect sun, but it came. As did a wasp. I’d used a body butter with Japanese Strawberries (whatever they are). Was the wasp smelling it or them? Was I sweet to him? Did he or she think me a flower, a bloom, ready to yield nectar. It hovered, it landed on my toe, my ankle and my calf. It came back a few times, hovered and landed again. I kept still. My childhood self was curious not frightened. It used to be. But not now. Would she approve?
He was told of her cancer. A young woman still. Her father would’ve been devastated. They are fond parents. I wish her well, though we barely know each other.
A bitty day today with odd jobs and ideas to get down. It must be done, else I am all cluttered inside.
I dreamt that someone was moving house. Was it us? I looked in through the windows of the new place. It was palatial but empty except for a lot of chairs, the old-fashioned kind, turned-wood and with curved backs. It’s an odd sensation looking through windows in a dream. It almost can’t happen, like looking in a mirror.
