music: cold bread, johnny flynn
"there is such a thing as being so caught up in the activity of your own life," she says, tasting cornmeal crumbs from the sharp & honeyed tines of her fork. we'd gone stealing two-penny caramels from the sunday flea market (unwrapping nostalgia in those cellophane squares), losing our friends in the unremarkable crowd, wandering through the clutter of kitchen appliances, records, paperbacks. we are reaching out to our vulnerabilities. i've been telling stories, keeping secrets. i am leaning into richness.
i haven't been writing or recording much in words. instead i linger with a careless, flippant feeling of ink & blank pages. (moments more moments than the beginnings of memory.) there are lots of impromptu conversations. films. autumn walks. flowers from the market. triangles of toast, squares of sushi. & on sunday afternoon, i came across the book i've been forever seeking in all the second-hand bookshops.
2 comments:
that first paragraph perfectly captures that piece of morning.
i'm so relieved you think so!
(i've been acutely aware that blog-readers are becoming ever-more witness to places i'm describing, or themselves turning up in the fragments i tell here. it's the nicest, most peculiar sort of feeling...)
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