We shall miss the water, she said. It brought it all back. That boat. How did I ever think we could make it into a home. I clutched at things. Anything, however flimsy. I was cornered. It was my own fault. I’d lost my practicality, my sense of truth. And yet, for that short time it was ours. I liked the rocking, the movement. I had hopes for something, though what that was, I didn’t then know. She makes it look beautiful, that kind of life. I could have lived it. I could.
Watching The Woman in White triggered it. Percival Glyde was being violent to his wife. But it was the threat of it that was worse, not the dragging of her and the slapping across her face. And then his hammering on her door. I lay in bed and remembered the threat of her. I was a child and then a teenager and still scared. I was always scared of her. She’d hurt me when I needed comfort and frighten me when I needed to feel secure. It wasn’t her fault. She was unhappy. Always was. I have forgiven her. Of course, I have. But those images brought it back. That dreadful vulnerability and no means of escape. Under the thrall, as Laura is. He was angry on my behalf. He sat on my bed and seethed. I do love him for that. She didn’t mean it. I believe that. Her pain overwhelmed all else. Rest in peace, my love.
Stepping out of my routine so easily displaces me. Though it was nice to implode, as we did yesterday sitting on the sofa in that dark little cottage in the Brecon Beacons. I loved watching and drawing the children. What beautiful beings they are, so vital, so robustly full of life and energy. By the afternoon I needed air and walked out into the intermitten sunshine and down the hill towards the Cathedral. I had no plan but just wandered in. A few people were milling about and the cafe and shop were still open. A series of iron tables and chairs had been placed outside but the chairs had been tipped up and leant into the tables against the rain. I walked along the tarmaced path and beyond a small car park. A few PRIVATE signs had been placed on the grass but everywhere else in the courtyard garden appeared to be open to the public. I took the steps down into a small, strata-ed series of beds profuse with herbs and plants made straggly with rain and the onset of their autumnal demise. It smelt glorious, a mix of mint, thyme and sweet pea. Walking back up the stairs I saw a little creature in the grass. Getting up close I could see that it was a small hedgehog. It wasn’t dead but seemed to be nuzzling its nose into the greenery as if wanting to sleep. Its eyes watched me but they struggled to stay open. Then, for no reason whatever it raised itself up and wandered off into the thicker grass by the wall. I love watching hedgehogs walk – though I must confess I haven’t seen that many. Its a rolling, low-in-the-bum sort of walk, careful and deliberate, its utterly unhurried. I felt touched by the wild. And early that day we’d see a stoat crossing the road before we got to Capel Bangor and I also spied a heron along the river in the Usk Valley. Wonderful.
We’ve began watching Fiona Seres’ adaptation of Wilkie Collins’ The Woman in White again. I feel completely different about it a second time. As P seems to do also. I am seeing, noticing things I didn’t the first time. It is luscious. And the actor playing Count Fosco has me completely in his thrall. His features are full, his face is overripe, gone but still so beguiling. And his use and pronunciation of English is equally over….over what, over done. He laps up the word, a cat with cream. A dangerous character, a dangerous face. I love it. We take our time….
He talked about spending a month living in Paris, of renting an apartment. He could work there, he said. For a brief moment I stopped listening to what he was saying. Paris. I loved those days we spent there. Ah, the beauty of it. Could we go? A month. An upper floor room, the windows open to the skyline. A curtain billowing in the breeze. The street smells of croissants, coffee, chocolate, the Seine, petrol fumes and cigarettes. Can we go?
I do fret. My mind worrits over everything and nothing. And all the time. When are my quiet times? Sleeping? Not necessarily for that too can be frought with concerns. Dreamful ones, certainly but as real as any living reality at the time. The birds are awake, like me they have been for some time. I hear the clacking of a magpie and the cawing of the rookery of rooks, but the four collared doves, taking their morning perch on top of the roof across from my studio window, are silent. No wood pigeons. Have they flown like the geese? Ah, I think of my drawing today and in the future. I long for it. I long to be doing it. Two more weeks of writing and form filling. So be it.
She reassured me. She was kind. She was complimentary. I notice how difficult it is for me to take such kindness in. She believes I can draw. And, she told me to take care of myself through this. It makes a difference. Women make a difference. They notice things. They watch out for you. I am grateful. I feel held by both of them. All of them. Thank you.
It looked like a crab. A crab with its pincers raised in defence. It wasn’t far out to sea. I could easily make out its lights and structure. Could it be an observation platform of some kind? Or maybe a landing stage or just a huge on-and-off ferry? There is always something new, even magical to come upon as I walk in the now dark early mornings. The sea was gentle. A lapping. The winter will come soon. These days before are diamonds.
They were flying through the blue of an afternoon sky. There were ten or maybe twelve of them. Canada geese beginning their journey home. Is Canada home? They are huge birds on land and in the sky they seem to sometimes falter. Clumsy, sometimes awkward. Will they make it?
I read about something call Posthumanism. Apparently some scientists are trying to do away with death. Eternal life. Here. On Earth. I thought about it. It didn’t take long. No. No thank you. I want to go. I want to die when my time comes. I want to close my eyes and never wake. I seek the nothing-ness, the light, the emptiness, the grace and the peace that cannot be found here. Not now, not ever. Let it be.
I stole them. I went there under cover of darkness with my scissors and stole them. Do they belong to anyone? I don’t know. They are growing (still, even in late August) in one of the plant containers outside what used to be TreeHouse and now defunct Health Food Shop and cafe. The leaves and tendrils are straggly and leggy but the flowers smell as sweet as anything. I love them. But, not unlike Rapunzel’s mother and her craving for Rapunzel (which I think is a German salad or cabbage plant), wanting or loving them isn’t reason enough to take some without permission. Will a witch come after me and exact a promise to give away a child in return?