The mornings are growing darker, the light is coming later and it isn’t blue. There is melancholy to this fact. I can feel that sense of implosion, of drawing myself in, in readiness for the winter. It must come. It is part of life. That dying of the light. I move toward the tunnel’s mouth.
I thought of him a lot yesterday, that is, after he told me what had happened. He’s kissed her on the lips, twice. It was a step too far. She hadn’t meant to make him feel about her the way he all too clearly did. She was just being her usual warm and tactile self. His misread it, misjudged it. He doesn’t go in there anymore. I saw him once in another cafe. His head was down, not welcoming any intrusion or interaction. It makes me sad to think him of feeling dejected and rejected. Poor love. A gentle man. Kind, I think.
It’s a small thing, that in the whole scheme of things could be left to slide, but she responded, was evidently a little lifted by the thought of it. It’s something that can be done, like a spray of perfume, a pretty blouse, a dab of handcream. It’s a gesture towards the preservation of an identity to which she holds dear, fast even. I hope that he can make it happen.
I got soaked, my waterproofs clinging to my legs after 10 minutes. It was a trudge of a walk. And yet, there were small joys too. The fact that no one else was out, for a start (and why would they be?), and the smells of dry earth becoming moist, and plants lifting heads to welcome the wetness are certainly those. I did draw but it was a scrambled affair, under the cover of a porch. It will do. The summer has been warm and dry, mostly. Let the rain do its work.
I need it, that gooey, sentimental escapism that such films offer. We watch about 15 to 20 minutes or so of them, before I get too sleepy and can no longer focus. It’s a cliche but I do switch from the endless trying to solve the puzzle of writing in my head. The stories, though fanciful, do take me in. I sleep better then, though I do wake in the night and the terrors of failure beginning haranguing me once again.
It was a grief-less funeral, or at least so it seemed to me. There was little black worn by the mourners, and one of her daughters wore a peach floral dress. The sun streamed into the church and the congregration sang with seemingly good heart. Likening her to Abel, the bishop who gave the eulogy, said that though dead she was still speaking to us. It felt odd to hear him say that. I knew what he meant but I wished her less active role. Let her rest, I wanted to say. She’s earnt it. Let there be silence instead. That, I always find, speaks volumes. R.I.P x
He tells me how happy he is. I worried about retiring, he said this morning, and it’s bloody marvellous. I am glad. I am glad that he feels this way. And me? I cannot see it, visualise it. Work stresses me but it also grounds me. I have purpose. My life has form and structure. Who can say what is coming? Be satisfied. This is all of your choosing.
Another huge and weighty package of books came in the post from the Library. What a joy it is to receive them. I think I’ve always felt this way about books, and indeed, reading, though I’ve never articulated it to myself. As a child borrowed books from the public library were a source of delight and comfort, as were my school ones. And now these academic tomes, mostly about drawing as they are, fill me up. How blessed I am.
He didn’t mean to, but the clattering noises he was making at 10.45pm last night woke me. It broke my sleep, which unusually might have be an uninterrupted one. I will never know. I woke up dislodged, cross even. I didn’t want to walk, to do the usual morning chores. I must rally. It is nothing compared to all the chaos of lives out there.
He took them away. I expect to hear the noise of them but it has gone. The silence is beautiful, though not complete, for now I can hear the tick of my clocks.