2004-12-26
"April was the cruelest month..."
The alarm clock begins beeping for some time, slowly creeping into my ear until my eyes open startled--almost--and I see that today is not as rainy as yesterday.
The sun shines through clouds today, and we had a gray Christmas yesterday. I stayed at home making myself soup, watched the steam rise from the little black pot. I heard the tea-kettle whistle after I had put Jasmine Tea in to boil.
The steam in the tea formed swirls--like the rainy wind in blotches on orange-hued, lamplighted pavement.
Last night, I began re-working Lake of Dreams, which I may turn into a story for Pen Women. And I slid my mug to and fro, trying to divert my attention elsewhere...unfortunately, feelings persist.
Lake of Dreams is entirely dedicated to Al. He is my muse--he brings out what it is I need to say.
Late summer was best. I'd listen to Tristesse during midday drinking Chai Latte. The blurry visions and memories haunted me, and I'd sit in cafes attempting to capture "the moment". His image haunts me. The feel of his lips brushing past mine is haunting--I need that.
It's all a circle moving at imponderable speeds--how time passes like sand and slips between our fingers.
I'll sit today and write; watch the memories fall down gently like long-awaited snow.