Thistledown

It’s black as pitch out there and it’s past 7.00am. A crow caws. All else is still. We’ve breakfasted and I’ve done my admin. He’s gone back to bed and I sit here in my studio warmed by the yellow light of my angle poise and listening to the aching groans of my little halogen fire as it grows cold. Why is it that the dark makes me feel so bleak? There is nothing to be frightened of today. Not today. I finished the two reviews yesterday and she was pleased with them. Great as ever, she said. It is enough. I am satisfied. Today I shall sew. I’ve much to do. And I can relax, breathe, letting my hands take over. I’ve to go to work in between naturally. But that’s OK the money has to come from somewhere.

I got a text. A possibility, like the found fiver. Not to be. Not available. And it is so far. Would it be worth it just for a showing off and dressing up? And he would have to sit and sit. He does so much of that, bless him.

I caught the tail end of piece of drama on the radio yesterday as I made lunch. John Mcgahern’s Parachutes. A lovely piece. And from what I understand it’s about a man who has broken up with his girlfriend and he tags along on a sort of pub crawl with two friends. His thoughts invade their chatter. At one point he begins to notice tiny bits of thistledown floating into the Dublin pub. He calls them parachutes. I love the focussing in on such a little thing. He can’t understand where they are coming from. A tip? Is there a tip nearby? he or one of his friends ask. Something like hope or at least serendipity is being carried in on those seeds. Won’t everything be alright, in the end?

I’ve much to listen to, much to catch up, not least The Archers. A gentle day. I send out a wish. Just let it be, eh?