At a particular time, you lose track, things are set to return. This day, hasn't it already been lived?
At 5.20 the sky is still covered with grey clouds. A single shaft of light enters your room and taps on the door, waking you. Little H is still blissfully asleep, his head next to mine. I arise and place a pillow next to his body as I turn to leave.
Outside there is a breeze and it has been a regular occurrence for the last two weeks. Some say it comes from Africa, sweeping in dust from thousands of miles away. What a journey! It has local name and an allotted time. Later in the morning it will faint and fade as the sun regains control, reclaims territory. You don't know the hour when this happens.
Everything in the world seeks a mirror and every form is vying for space.
You stumble into one room forgetting why you entered it in the first place, just a vague, half-formed idea in your head, so you stand still expecting it to come to you. Instead you notice a small black bird lost in the small green and yellow leaves of a tree outside the window.
The patterns of our lives-the shape of it-that we only dimly discern in the murky light.
The breeze is cooler by a few degrees today since it rained the previous night. You can detect the faint smell of fresh earth-grass and soil. The breeze is like a guest that has stayed over, or a brilliant conversation whose memory carries over into the next day..a few clear, jewel-like sparkling words. Summer, too, sometimes contains the sense of its own ending, its own beginning.
In a different light we see a different world.
Without distances there would be no return. But what do you return to and who is it that returns?
In the corridor someone rather foolishly said: "In a century we will have worked it out, we will have a better understanding of what we're about". You don't argue or dismiss him but it seems that if one is young anything can be believed.
You bump into an old friend who is lionhearted by name (but not by temperament). He's 'on' his second marriage and informs me of other break-ups and impending divorces amongst our mutual friends. No-one could have seen it and there's no telling.This is what passes for 'news', that and the onset of blood pressure, diabetes and angina. How the cards are dealt is anybody's guess.
A returns from Thailand saying it is dirt cheap. Full of slim prostitutes and shady looking middle aged men. How that makes it more advanced than the land of the pure is beyond me. Over there, he tells me, you can see there is a kind of dynamism, people on the move. It all sounds terribly confusing. Everyone on the move, going where, one wonders, and for what purpose? ('Purpose of visit' it reads on the card). What if I were to write: 'to find myself'? Or, more accurately, 'to be in the presence of loved ones'?
Today the breeze comes and goes, rustling in the high leaves, making a discarded sweet wrapper dance for a while, whistling through the sighing windows that haven't been closed properly, shifting some red African dust, mingling with the local grey in the early hours, ruffling someone's hair, lifting the corner of someone's clothes, flowing, alighting, resting, opening and closing, laughing, murmuring to itself, until tomorrow it will not.
At 5.20 the sky is still covered with grey clouds. A single shaft of light enters your room and taps on the door, waking you. Little H is still blissfully asleep, his head next to mine. I arise and place a pillow next to his body as I turn to leave.
Outside there is a breeze and it has been a regular occurrence for the last two weeks. Some say it comes from Africa, sweeping in dust from thousands of miles away. What a journey! It has local name and an allotted time. Later in the morning it will faint and fade as the sun regains control, reclaims territory. You don't know the hour when this happens.
Everything in the world seeks a mirror and every form is vying for space.
You stumble into one room forgetting why you entered it in the first place, just a vague, half-formed idea in your head, so you stand still expecting it to come to you. Instead you notice a small black bird lost in the small green and yellow leaves of a tree outside the window.
The patterns of our lives-the shape of it-that we only dimly discern in the murky light.
The breeze is cooler by a few degrees today since it rained the previous night. You can detect the faint smell of fresh earth-grass and soil. The breeze is like a guest that has stayed over, or a brilliant conversation whose memory carries over into the next day..a few clear, jewel-like sparkling words. Summer, too, sometimes contains the sense of its own ending, its own beginning.
In a different light we see a different world.
Without distances there would be no return. But what do you return to and who is it that returns?
In the corridor someone rather foolishly said: "In a century we will have worked it out, we will have a better understanding of what we're about". You don't argue or dismiss him but it seems that if one is young anything can be believed.
You bump into an old friend who is lionhearted by name (but not by temperament). He's 'on' his second marriage and informs me of other break-ups and impending divorces amongst our mutual friends. No-one could have seen it and there's no telling.This is what passes for 'news', that and the onset of blood pressure, diabetes and angina. How the cards are dealt is anybody's guess.
A returns from Thailand saying it is dirt cheap. Full of slim prostitutes and shady looking middle aged men. How that makes it more advanced than the land of the pure is beyond me. Over there, he tells me, you can see there is a kind of dynamism, people on the move. It all sounds terribly confusing. Everyone on the move, going where, one wonders, and for what purpose? ('Purpose of visit' it reads on the card). What if I were to write: 'to find myself'? Or, more accurately, 'to be in the presence of loved ones'?
Today the breeze comes and goes, rustling in the high leaves, making a discarded sweet wrapper dance for a while, whistling through the sighing windows that haven't been closed properly, shifting some red African dust, mingling with the local grey in the early hours, ruffling someone's hair, lifting the corner of someone's clothes, flowing, alighting, resting, opening and closing, laughing, murmuring to itself, until tomorrow it will not.
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