Tuesday @ 4:46 am, Valros
DREAM FRAGMENT: The snow-covered grass. There are brown pebbles beneath a layer of slushy snow. William says he’s to bring home a survey, a questionnaire about the garden. We are on a little patch of the yard.
Yesterday, at nearly the mid-point of the time here, I felt out of sorts. Doubt creeping in. Who am I to take up this space, this time?
Today will be a better day.
I hear a fast clock ticking but there is no clock.
I hear the cries of birds from the inky blue. The bells chime the hour.
ON THE BEACH: the umbrella cartwheeling across the sand. The vendor’s cart, parked near to the water’s edge. Children approach. They leave with ice pops, cones wrapped in paper. The man who dances by, holding his box of treats aloft, singing. I recognize the words “beignets, nutella.” No one buys anything from him, but he continues singing as he makes his way down the beach.
They disappear into the green sea.
In the early morning, the village trucks rumble down the narrow streets. In the evenings, motorcycles and scooters.
It is easy, in so many ways, to be here. Disconnected from the dailiness. And yet, I am not immune here from a sense of sadness, a sense of not quite doing the right thing. Not knowing what comes next.
DAILY INTENTIONS: note-taking, transcribing in the morning. In the afternoon, the grant application. Respond to the waiting emails.