He talked about it as a privilege. And it is. I have been given time to write, to explain and make sense of what it is that motivates me. But I forget this. In my anxiety.
It is a hard day. So many deaths. Twenty-five years have passed and the killing continues. When will we learn?
It was the first time that the windows steamed up from my bath since April, or was it May. Autumn is coming.
I know why I do it, though I won’t bore you with it now. Needless to say it’s from long ago, when my sense of autonomy was shakier than it is today. Though it is still shaky, hence my trying too hard to keep those whom I rely on sweet. It doesn’t work. And she is particularly unresponsive to cajoling. Heigh ho, it happened and it will happen again. And then, once it is over, I can return to my cave.
It looked benign from my window, a gentle pit-patter, that’s all. I wore my waterproofs and my hat anyway, just in case. But I was wrong. The pitter was a downpour. I got drenched, my trousers (not waterproof it seems) were soon stuck to my shins, sodden. It’s a miserable business walking in the rain when you are soaked through, every step is a trudge. I gave up after twenty minutes, too cold and shivery to continue. Poor show, E.
They’re a fantasy really. I have a picture in my mind of the rest that a hotel bed affords but that is without all the travails of getting there and all the adjustments of the fantasy that have to be made. Is it possible? And should it be taken? I don’t know. Meanwhile, as ever, there is work to be done.
I’m not fresh and ready to work, though I must work. My body aches from housework and the standing that it involves and the rain outside doesn’t help much. Grant me the stamina I need just to get through this last hurdle. Please.
I wonder if they intend to get worse. Saturday morning cleaning takes its toll on them, leaving me hobbling. I can bear it. I must. But I do wonder if they intend to get worse.
It threw me. It was a reality, and kindly meant but it threw me. And now? Now I am calmer but worn out. Enough histrionics. Now I must just work. And finish it. Finally.
I long for one, to make one, to be in a space where there is nothing. Just to be empty. For a little while.
We’ve begun watching the Woody Allen film ‘Whatever Works’ featuring Larry David as the main protagonist. He is blunt, rude and obnoxious, inevitably really, as that is what David does. But there is east, at least for me, in watching him. It isn’t laugh-out-loud funny but it amuses me. Odd really, I seek goodness but find relief in his, often outrageous charm-lessness. He seems to do so to. A silliness really but work is heavy, so why not. Whatever works. Whatever works.