Monday, 10 October 2011
And then I became filled with anxiety, wordless troubles, and restlessness. Worries and aimlessness whirled around me like dead old leaves. Boxes sat unpacked, plans were left unmade, and an aura of indistinctness hovered about these dusty rooms. There was a swelling grief of unnamed things.
The only thing left to do was to retreat to the park and the woods on the outskirts of town.
Eating apples on a park bench, drinking hot tea from a flask. Walking until the night falls, heavy and inky.
At this time of year, early in the mornings and evenings the light is not yet lit in the hallway and staircase of our tenement. It is necessary to enter the yawning building and feel along the wall in the pitch dark, stumble over to the first tattered step and then begin climbing up the flights of stairs, hoping the neighbour is home so that at the landing, by the doorstep, some light will shine down from the window above their door to make it easier to find the right key.
We are still possibly moving countries again in a few weeks time, though nothing is close to sure enough for us to have started preparing at all. I paint a little and then worry that there is not enough time for the paint to dry before it will have to be packed up and sent away to wherever it is that we are going.
At least there are the woods and waves and howling winds.