Did my imagining that it was going to happen, make it so? Who knows? I thought about it, minutes before he did it. And it went everywhere. Such mishaps bring him down. He feels stupid, awkward, cross with himself. It’s wiped up, done. Though upstairs reeks of coffee. There are worse smells.
I am constantly tired. I thought my energy would pick up since the cold we both had left, but it hasnt’. Is it my heart? Or anaemia? I trudge rather than walk. Will it pass? I need my strength, for there is still so much work to do.
My reply to his Instagram post about Palestine, and how his sadness and impotence over what is happening there has made him unable t draw or paint, felt paltry, mere platitude. I feel for him, and for him, as I do for the Ukrainians over our selling out over buying oil from Russia. It is all so ugly, so unethical and unkind. How have we got ourselves in all this mess of degradation?
My dreams borrow from my waking life. I’d looked at an image of Keir Starmer on his iPad that afternoon, and the same picture became animated during sleep. He was reading from an iPad as he parked his car. It irritated me that he could be so careless. Then he got out of the car and said, his hand stroking the back of his neck: “It’s so hot.” And that was it.
He called me after I’d texted him. He sounded more like his usual self. He was driving he said. (Perhaps it was the imagining of this event that fed my dream.) There is still a long way to go, but he seemed sangine about it.
Some days are like that. I am awry internally and externally. I drop things, fall and knock or cut myself. I don’t know why. And then the agitation come. I am best safe at home, in my studio and at my desk working, on such days. Out of the way of harm. Mostly.
I no longer drink it. Is that why I crave and, indeed, derive so much pleasure from the aroma of it. I have a candle that smells of it, and nothing pleases me more than sitting amongst the scents of the roasting of it, such as in Covent Garden’s Monmouth Coffee House. Perhaps the addiction goes on regardless.
Some days I am beyond tired. There no word for this lethargy. Sleep doesn’t cure it. I wake up tired. I am sorry. I do not have to go down a pit or work a loom in a factory. It’s just that my work, mental and domestic, is so relentless, that my days lack joy. And I am ashamed for compared to so many I am so very fortunate. It’s my perspective that has gone awry. Is it cast in stone now?
I thought about this town’s now long gone Pelican Bakery as I walked this morning. As with the two other bakeries that used to exist, the town is without the comfort of the smells of hot salty dough that used to emanate from them. The mediterranean cafe bakes its own bread and pastries, in the upper floor of its shop, but it is not the same. The supermarkets have drummed them out of business, and though I no longer eat bread, it saddens me. Is this progress?
Did you go out? He asks when I go in to the bedroom to wake him. Yes, I say and then share all the sights and sounds that I encountered in those still dark hours, like the two huge lorries parked outside the bank, lights blaring, as some sort of drilling and welding of subterranean pipes was going on. Or I tell him about the kids piling out of The Angel and heading for the Penguin Cafe, overtaken with hunger. It’s a different town from the daylight one. The one he knows so well.
The shower began and I grimaced at the sensation of heavy drops on my head and coat, and then it came. That smell. What was it? A revelation of contained warmth, of sun-induced dryness, made revelatory by the rain. The wetness made it manifest and, gorgeous.