this too
Saturday, April 09, 2005
  Cold evening, monkey mind
It's marrow-chillingly cold, though the sun was out earlier and the evening light is soft.

I’m reading a novel by a writer new to me, Andrew Greig. In Another Light. About memory, and near-death, and the feeling of life afterwards. It’s set partly in the Orkneys. A great sense of empty beauty and small community.

It makes me long for a sense of place, to be in the country, not just bits of park and woodland on the edge of the city.

Need what I felt at M’s house in France. The grass and trees pressing into my body, green air in my lungs. Waking with a smile on my face.

On the last evening, walking downhill out of the forest, I saw a deer race out of the trees and across a field. Over so quickly, just a shadow on my retina.

I cried all the way home on the train. Absurd. I never told M. Kept shutting myself in the toilet and trying to stop. Back in my seat, weeping again.

What is it about French trains? The train from Valence, leaving J on the platform, knowing for certain I would never go back because I loved his wife and kids almost as much as I loved him.

However did I get here in five minutes while the kettle boiled?
Oh. Hugs.
You are so full of life. Your posts remind me of myself so often. Intensity and joy, deep sadness and longing. Isn't that what life is all about? Thank you so much for sharing these pieces of pain.

I appreciate it very much.
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Freelance copy-editor and translator. Keen on language, literature, photography, art, music, buddhist meditation and the countryside.

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