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lost time and the rain
Jun. 21st, 2005 07:29 pmIt's a not-entirely-unpleasant irony that the summer solstice should have turned into a grim stormy day. It was so dark at 3:30 that it was more like a winter afternoon than a summer day, except for the muggy heat.
I was grateful for the cool the rain brought. Paris can be a hothouse, and it's the first time it's been comfortable in days. There are little teasing rents in the clouds where a bit of blue shows the infinite evening that's being held back from us.
I'm in a strange mood. I recognize this feeling -- aimless, restless, the evening dwindling to less and less while I try to find some meaningful action, some useful track of thought. Before I started writing regularly, there were a lot of these evenings. I'm glutted on Queer as Folk and rice-and-vegetables. (White rice, not brown... who can place the reference to the Best Worst Movie Ever Made?) I should write, or work on the art show project, or sleep, or let myself be still, or go for a walk on the longest day of the year. Instead I'll move from spot to spot, watch a few minutes of TV, read a few pages of a book, check my email too often, and let this day fade out like it was any other day.
Of course no day should be wasted, solstice or interstice. And I know I'm waxing, not wasting -- healing and repairing and fabricating myself anew and all that. But this strange in-between place is too much like -- what is it called when a force pushes against itself and action is cancelled out? That.
I've been buying used books, stupidly, wantonly. I always do that when I want to feel safe, homey, protected. I bought a copy of By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept at the Wells $1 sale (the last of its spent sales...) -- and you know, the book is still just as irritating as the first time I read it. I want to like it. I feel like I should. Poetic narrative, intoxicating love -- E. Smart and I really should be Prose Poem Buddies. All I keep thinking is, get over yourself, woman.
Sage-green words.
{rf}
[Edited to add: Or the day after the solstice? The US Army calendar and the UVic Finnerty Gardens calendar disagree. I am in limbo.]
I was grateful for the cool the rain brought. Paris can be a hothouse, and it's the first time it's been comfortable in days. There are little teasing rents in the clouds where a bit of blue shows the infinite evening that's being held back from us.
I'm in a strange mood. I recognize this feeling -- aimless, restless, the evening dwindling to less and less while I try to find some meaningful action, some useful track of thought. Before I started writing regularly, there were a lot of these evenings. I'm glutted on Queer as Folk and rice-and-vegetables. (White rice, not brown... who can place the reference to the Best Worst Movie Ever Made?) I should write, or work on the art show project, or sleep, or let myself be still, or go for a walk on the longest day of the year. Instead I'll move from spot to spot, watch a few minutes of TV, read a few pages of a book, check my email too often, and let this day fade out like it was any other day.
Of course no day should be wasted, solstice or interstice. And I know I'm waxing, not wasting -- healing and repairing and fabricating myself anew and all that. But this strange in-between place is too much like -- what is it called when a force pushes against itself and action is cancelled out? That.
I've been buying used books, stupidly, wantonly. I always do that when I want to feel safe, homey, protected. I bought a copy of By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept at the Wells $1 sale (the last of its spent sales...) -- and you know, the book is still just as irritating as the first time I read it. I want to like it. I feel like I should. Poetic narrative, intoxicating love -- E. Smart and I really should be Prose Poem Buddies. All I keep thinking is, get over yourself, woman.
Sage-green words.
{rf}
[Edited to add: Or the day after the solstice? The US Army calendar and the UVic Finnerty Gardens calendar disagree. I am in limbo.]
