Last night I woke at four. In my sleeplessness I held several dinner parties, long over due. I left no one out. My dear cousins were all together, I cooked a vegetable dish, a whole salmon and peach cobbler. It was early on a Sunday, the weather was warm so we ate outside. At the last minute I invited the nieces, nephews and their little flock of babies. Even the dogs came and I was reminded of a Rosamunde Pilcher novel. They left early evening and I sat with a glass of wine by the river running little anecdotes over in my mind. I did the same with good friends and women I felt a connection with. The women wandered over early afternoon carrying bottles of wine and we sat by the river nibbling fruit and little sandwiches from plates covered with umbrella nets. We put wine bottles in the river to chill and sat barefoot on the rocks talking and laughing.
In the morning G and I sip coffee and listen to music. I tell him what I did while he slept. I was exhausted and pleased it was over. G continued to scrabble.
The following day is lite; I walk, play in the studio, read by the river. I think of Iceland. I remember knitting in the frozen air while sitting on a glacier and later steaming in a mud bath. This trip is vivid yet it was cancelled.
My natural state is a slow wander in the woods, an unruly disorder of time without commitments. Uninhabited, this word fills me with hope.
a paved road:
but no Flamingos
grow on it.”
— Vincent Van Gogh (almost)
I try to entertain at four in the morning, travel in my dreams.