Monday, 18 January 2010
Listening to Bert Jansch and The Incredible String Band and Vashti Bunyan a little too much lately perhaps. Fits of melancholy behind the mask. If I still smoked, I'd be doing so now, on the windowsill, and wishing there were a friend or two here to share my cigarette with. Pretending I was lighting up for them too.
My mother has me stuffing endless envelopes for dog and cat registrations in the county. Thousands, literally thousands. At one point, today I had to escape. So I went out in the on-again off-again drizzle to walk beside the rolling meadow beside the reservoir and have a chat with the deer...All scarved up, it felt a little lonely. But lush in between the breaks of rain. Peaceful. Eminently shareable. I'm glad I thought to take myself out there again.
What else? Lemonade (not the British kind, but organic, fresh-squeezed) is becoming a new habit of mine--this, I offer you, in the way of news...
Also a cat I saw was named Juicy...
Also a sudden desire to send and receive some post that doesn't involve pet licensing. Maybe a nice postcard just to say, take a breath, and that everything will be fine. A hand-squeeze or a knee-squeeze in handwritten ink.
The stony shore beside the restless reservoir (storm clouds rushing overhead) was completely empty of anyone. Even the birds weren't lingering. So I took the oppotunity to hum as many good old outdoor folk songs as I could remember, one or two more loudly than was necessary...One evening fair, as I took the air, by Blackwaterside...
Yellow roses may be all that he can bring you...
Before you go, back to London Town...
Letting my Anglophilia run rife. It looked a little like this, but without the horse. Then again, maybe he was there in spirit. Yes, I'd like to think so.
I'd definitely invite him, as I would you, anytime, around for tea, if I could. Or easily for lemonade. In my own room or rooms or flat or house somewhere, sometime in the hopefully very near future. Sparse furniture and teathings and having to make do with sitting on the floor, or course. I'd like that...Just to make this clear: I'm talking about you now, not the imaginary horse.
There's also a good chance I would put this amazing ISB song on quietly in the background, the first verse of which goes like this (ahem):
Baby come tell me 'bout your treehouse
And your candy-striped pet mouse
And your car that has feet
Hey, come tell me 'bout your eyebrows that meet
And, my baby, won't you tell me 'bout your chilblains
And your right eyeball's growing pains
And your purple tractor that sings
Hey come tell me all of those things