Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.
It’s the same term she used to describe the workings of her mind after her hip operation a few years ago. He used it this morning to try and put into words the affect of this cold’s residue. He certainly is more irascible. Frustration, I suppose, at being slower and a trifle forgetful. The other day he fell asleep in the cafe. And came home cross and disorientated. It has to be borne. And I am not much better. But I have work to anchor me.
I have been equally floored by this cold as he was. I didn’t walk this morning. I have no strength. I will work, though he says that I shouldn’t. I need to feel normal, eventhough I don’t. The morning outside promises well.
I dreamt of Branwell Bronte over and over last night.
We’ve begun watching the film ‘To Walk Invisible’ again. I am always struck by the cinematography, the colours and the beauty of the language – not old but not modern either. It shines. And the actress playing Emily always takes my breath – so tall, so feral and so fierce in her displays of family hate and love. They are inextricable. So fine.
He isn’t well. The cold has got worse, and he has taken to his bed. I try to be practical, no-nonsense, upbeat, but it wobbles me. I think of his death daily. How can I not? Is this borrowed time? Can I ask that you make him well? He says that he wants to live. Can it be so, for a little while longer? Please.
We must negotiate. So it is. We want, no need, different things. So it is within marriages. I make suggestions. He says he will think about it. And I must leave it at that. There is time to cogitate.
Yesterday the washing machine’s inbuilt dryer didn’t work, today it is doing. It’s a minor thing, what they call a ‘First World’ problem. And maybe, it is these trifling little inconsistencies that get to us the most, that is, when we have shelter, food to eat and meaningful work. Machines are a boon but also a bugbear. I hate not understanding them, it makes me fear them. Ridiculous, I know. It’s disfunction got to me yesterday. I want to rise above such trivialities today. If I can…..
Despite my lack of self-confidence, I have a will, and I often impose it. Sometimes tacitly. He knows this, and can look after himself. We manage. We balance our often very differing desires. It is ok.
I cleanses me. I lie in it and think about my writing. And clarity comes. The building sites noise, which is at times extreme, can be blotted out, if I choose instead to listen to the wood pigeon. And I do.
I saw the first two butterflies of the year two days ago, and this morning there was a moth flitting about around the table light upstairs. They bring a promise of something almost like joy…..
I forget the wonder of it all, lost, as I mostly am in my head. The sky was full of stars tonight and the moon a slither of light. And there was a face. I am sure of it.