Bench

I wish I felt comfortable alone on a bench. Enjoying the view, thinking my thoughts. Basking in the fresh air, the sun. A summer's day. But I don't, never have. Even with a book I feel unrelaxed. Conscious, perhaps, that I'm taking up a bench – nobody will sit next to a single person in case they strike up a conversation. I wouldn't. Okay, I might, if the silence felt awkward or the stranger's presence was too difficult to ignore, restless. It's so difficult to be comfortably alone – in the open. Conscious, perhaps, that I look nervous or suspicious. Too conscious, perhaps, of people, none like me, on their own.

Picture credit: Bench, 1881, Edouard Manet (source: WikiArt).

From journal, March 2023.

Annes

A buzz of words; a sheet of paper seized: can any be made sense of? can any be grasped and set down?

They swirl around like leaves or snow, as if blown by a pesky wind. Thoughts filled with Annes – Annes with an 'e': Austen's, Montgomery's, Brontë, my mother. Anne Elliot. Anne Shirley. Anne Brontë. Anne Francis (née Ralls). Fictional and real Annes. Orphaned Annes and Annes with siblings. Courageous Annes and overshadowed Annes. Forgotten Annes, sidelined by history, by everybody. Serious and searching Annes, determined to form their own opinions. Annes content to let others lead, for they will find their own narrow way. Single Annes and married Annes. Aunt Annes and Mother Annes. (What will they impart to their nieces, their daughters?) Arguing Annes. Secretive Annes. Annes forever slipping out of view.

Picture credit: Anne Bronte (from a group portrait) by her brother Patrick Bramwell Bronte (source: Wikipedia).

From journal, March 2023.

High-rise

A hankering for a high-rise apartment with basement laundry, mail room and garbage chute. A cubbyhole in the sky, higher than my three above the street. Maybe eight floors up like Helene Hanff or a penthouse on the sixteenth like her friend Nina, with above, below, on the same floor convivial human and dog neighbours and cat suitors. A building with a front step to sit out on and pass the time; with a night doorman who offers car-and-driver services as a sideline. A hankering for New York City of the 60s, 70s, 80s. For block parties and parades and Thanksgiving Days. A dream city, for though it is still there I would not find it as written. It would have changed – as all cities do – and I'm not the type who likes getting lost. Nor do I like constant noise and bustle and bright lights. I would not make a good New Yorker; only in dream could I adopt the city as my home.

Picture credit: Apartment View, 1993, Wayne Thiebaud (source: WikiArt).

See Letter From New York by Helene Hanff. 

Written March 2023.

A Third-floor Lady

In these rooms there is stillness, a tense stillness. Something must happen. Movement. The air agitated, water run so the breakfast dishes can be washed, cupboard doors opened and softly closed. Chores. A third-floor lady going about her morning routine, thinking as she does them 'what comes next', or ruminating on some problem, some thought, or sentence lately read. Another lady had said: 'A decision leaves one free. Hesitation and doubt leaves one surrounded by undone things.' Regrets, is that what she means? thinks the third-floor lady. Perhaps the folly of nothingness, of clinging to places? Perhaps … A questioning mind, such as this lady possesses, finds perhapses all the time.

Picture credit: Room in Brooklyn,1932, Edward Hopper (source: WikiArt).

Written March 2023.

Building Upon Sand

A third of life spent in the world of dreams, building upon sand. Building, deliberately toppling. With feet, with spade. Building, with hands. Patting it carefully, proud, before waves crash over it and drag it out to sea. Nothing itself, everything something else. Fear: kick and scream, or retreat. Detachment: observe; examine. Herd: deciding emotions; overriding inclinations. Run; scream. A human machine.

Picture credit: Beach at Le Pouldu, 1889, Paul Gauguin (source: WikiArt).

From journal, February 2023.