Dear
G.,
Wednesday,
a crafting day with PVA glue. (What does PVA stand for?) A sticky
mess – hands, table – and it's only the morning; but nevertheless
on a warm, muggy beginning, when the air is but a breath, a restful
activity. DIY books are made, a legacy – for what, for whom? I
don't know. I will store them in a box to be found, and hope they
survive the years, the moths, the paper-chewing bugs, any natural
god-made disasters that befall the contents of this flat. There are
digital equivalents, but who knows whether in years to come they'll
be able to be read, to be unlocked. And again by whom, by what? It's
a riddle, though I'm not sure I care that I don't have, don't know
the answer. It's for after, after the fact, when dust has come to
these bones. A dust that is being slowly grinded now I think. The
state they must be in! Walking yesterday, just to the shops and back,
was hard work, not painful, just effortful. The pavement the problem,
not my feet; unless it is my feet that have grown picky upon what
ground they walk over.
A pause, a break, to wash the hair, to exercise inside, to watch Neighbours, to lunch (peanut butter – yum!) with Robert Louis Stevenson and Modestine (the donkey) in the Cévennes.
Then a further break to attempt again to restore, to rewrite a lost work (human error!), and failing, some online research.
Wednesday, a crafting day, with none of yesterday's near total silence. No; a busy day of sirens.
Wednesday, a day I cannot write a normal letter and stuff full of trivia and goings-on; though the trivia matters just as much as the big; because it all, big and small, passes. One day becomes another, one year goes into another dot, dot, dot.
Yes; Wednesday, when my mind does not wish to think, nor indeed to comment, upon worldly affairs, nor speak of the personal. We are all still here – Mum, Dad, D., Aunt, Uncle, I. Ups and downs. Highs and lows. But here.
An unusual letter, if it can be said to be a letter at all. Perhaps a more usual one next time? (if not penned on a Wednesday.)
A pause, a break, to wash the hair, to exercise inside, to watch Neighbours, to lunch (peanut butter – yum!) with Robert Louis Stevenson and Modestine (the donkey) in the Cévennes.
Then a further break to attempt again to restore, to rewrite a lost work (human error!), and failing, some online research.
Wednesday, a crafting day, with none of yesterday's near total silence. No; a busy day of sirens.
Wednesday, a day I cannot write a normal letter and stuff full of trivia and goings-on; though the trivia matters just as much as the big; because it all, big and small, passes. One day becomes another, one year goes into another dot, dot, dot.
Yes; Wednesday, when my mind does not wish to think, nor indeed to comment, upon worldly affairs, nor speak of the personal. We are all still here – Mum, Dad, D., Aunt, Uncle, I. Ups and downs. Highs and lows. But here.
An unusual letter, if it can be said to be a letter at all. Perhaps a more usual one next time? (if not penned on a Wednesday.)
H.
Picture credit: Path under the Trees, Summer 1877, Camille Pissarro (source: WikiArt).
Written September 2021.
