It was gone. The bag with the three jam and buttered scones was gone when I walked past this morning. Who had taken them? A mystery. I will never know. The man with the floral counterpane was there this morning, but sleeping on the side bench of the shelter. Perhaps it was more sheltered from the wind that side. I would’ve been sad if they had still been there. I hope someone enjoyed them. I shall do it again. I promise.
She sends out regular emails inviting us to various events. I won’t go again. I like the ideas, her ideas in principle but I struggle with the intimacy of them. She invades with kindness and solicitude. I feel a rage inside of me as a result. A lovely kind woman, I can see how effective she is but I am not comfortable. Don’t I need to be? Isn’t it important? This last one was about a gathering in France and Germany managed by what seemed to be some kind of guru. I want it, I want the truth, the cleansing, the enlightenment they appear to promise but I can’t do the unravelling, not in public, it is too excruciating. Fuck that, he says when I try to describe it to him over supper. You don’t want any of that. No, I don’t. But what do I want?
I woke to heavy rain outside my window. My heart and soul sink at the prospect of going out in it. But by the time I’d put on all my layers including his coat, the rain had stopped and it was glorious. There was a keen breeze but the air was fresh and alive. I smelt gloss paint along North Road, someone had painted their front door scarlet. Trying to be one step ahead of possible rain I went home the back way hoping that the bakery smells would be wafted, carried on the wind as far as the station. Not so. But there was a lovely, sweet perfume coming from a shrub on the top of the little hill that takes us to Llanbadarn Road. I couldn’t work out what it was.
I am sleepy. I need to move. Work this morning, then home to sketch out ideas for this new project. We shall see, one day up the next day down.