I am attuned here to different things. Woke this morning to the eerie thin calls of coyotes. Dawn had not yet broken.
When we walk, we are watching for movement across the stone paths. Lizards, rabbits, maybe a snake. By the time we hear the rustling in the nearby brush, we know we’ve already missed it.
Disconnected from ordinary time. What day is it, what hour? We are unaccustomed to these rhythms.
Yesterday, I finished Han Kang’s The Vegetarian. What I was left with was the reminder of how little we can know about the workings of our own minds. Interior life – our own, those of the ones we love – how mysterious – brilliant and terrifying.
I am here to write, mostly. I have brought three hundred pages – of what? – of something that has not yet found its form. It is difficult to know where to begin. I stare at these paragraphs already written, certain rhythms and phrases of which have already become familiar to my own ear. How to find a way back in, to break it all down from inside?
But perhaps the way in is not back. Perhaps this time here is an invitation to start something new.