It is hot enough to have all the windows in the house open and early enough in the season so as to still smell sweet out there. Lovely smells, from my neighbours' cooking notwithstanding, shinny in my window. Sweet sounds, the neighbours' children notwithstanding, do vibratto duty just at ear level. Hover there. Some sort of power tool. A child practicing the recorder. Another child shrieks, one wails, two argue. Mother's whispered conversations, "I don't think you should keep your story to yourself, Mel, I think you have to share your story with everyone." "Well, yes, I suppose I should." Strangest snippets make themselves clear above all other noise.
Anyway, it is hot, and I am in a fishbowl. New apartment, July 1st.
Hey, cleared the way to recover from some old mistakes today. Got something off my shoulders that was really bugging me. Am taking care of it and it feels very, very good.
Have noticeably stopped advising people of my every mood change or even the hint of a change, but now I think I am hardly talking to anyone. I talk to so many people at work every day, I am talked out when I leave that place. Talk talk talk talk talk talk talk.
There is suddenly the sound of an accordian coming from somewhere. Why is it that whenever I hear an accordian or fiddles I automatically think, "Those are my kind of people"? The circus.
The music is very sweet, wherever it's coming from, and it's making me a bit nostalgiac, and in need of a good country weekend. Er...a good weekend in the country. I have to practice being French, riding around in cotton frocks, a baguette and some fresh flowers in the basket of my bicycle. "Ring, ring!" goes the bell on my squeaky, red bike. I laugh and my laugh is made of coffee, croissants and cigarettes, and is unselfconcious.
I love the French.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
An attempt to avoid the maudlin. To think of absurdity and beauty as symbiotic. To be naked. I am endlessly fascinated with my own story.
No comments:
Post a Comment