I haven’t felt like talking much and so it goes that I haven’t felt much like writing either. Opening up the drawers of my desk, I look to see if there are any extra words laying around, in the bottom, in the corners and find only perfume vials and paper clips. It is not sadness, nor its opposite, just quiet. I close the drawers and let my gaze rise out the window like a balloon escaping a tiny fist. The clouds are lazy.
They drag behind the beat of the guitar strum of the homeless man who is sitting on the sidewalk just to the right of our front door. I say homeless but I don’t know if that is true, SDF in French or Sans Domicile Fixe. He was there yesterday evening as well, drinking a beer and asking about the dogs. He used the polite “vous” form and wished me a pleasant evening. In turn I offered that he would have Bon Courage with the rain. Which is gone today. So perhaps that is why he is playing.
Remi walks past my desk and the orchids near my screen shake their hearts with each step. How thin these old floors are, how differently built. We must have sounded like elephants to the family that lived below. But now they’ve gone and we have the building to ourselves. Which feels both luxurious and isolating, the space that contains us. Luckily, we have the country so close at hand, the land where we can keep walking and often in silence. I don’t have to find the words to express the precision of such beauty. Cowboy rope mountains, twilight petals. I can get lost in the looking. We all have our internal answers, those without syllables that we just know. What comfort that brings. It sings.
Have a wonderful wag of a week, everyone…
