“Do you know a cure for me?” Why yes,” he said, “I know a cure for everything. Salt water.” “Salt water?” I asked him. “Yes,” he said, “in one way or the other. Sweat, or tears, or the salt sea.” ― Karen Blixen, Seven Gothic Tales
It pisses me right off when I’ve been for my sunrise beach walk and the day goes to hell anyway. I mean, honestly, it’s bs. I wake early, I exercise, I photograph and identify stuff, I get fresh air…. I go home and potter about (because I’ve reached the age where doing that and using that word to describe it fits) and then something happens or doesn’t happen and I’m slammed
into the abyss again.
So I had therapy yesterday, which was really good, not least because she forgot about last week’s cognitive errors homework (so did I). She asked me really focused and specific questions and somehow it felt good, but tbh I can’t actually remember why now. Gotta love bipolar brain eh. This week I’m supposed to think about how Dog is like me. So far I’ve come up with the fact that we are both wonky and that we whine and growl a lot. A good start methinks. After that, I had lunch with a friend I haven’t seen in far too long (my fault) and then coffee with another friend nearer home. A good day and a remarkably sociable one, I have extremely good taste in friends.
I have another little instalment in the neighbour saga for you too. It’s her birthday tomorrow, which I’d completely forgotten (I’m worse than useless at remembering birthdays, it’s not a new thing) and her daughter invited me to a braai at her place. My heart sank (and since it’s already made of lead, that’s saying something) and to cut a very long and boring account of two conversations short, I am very pleased to announce that I’m not going to the braai. I got through it diplomatically too. What I haven’t told you (because I forgot) is that I’m waging war by the poisonous and devious means of never, ever being negative about the douchebag of a bf, and only ever allowing myself a very small display of wounded something or other. Idk, that sentence got away from me somewhat. There shall be no conflict, for I abhor conflict (unless I can just chuck a fragmentation grenade at it and skedaddle). I’ve mellowed a fuckload in my middle years. I could’ve saved myself the aggravation today if only I’d just said, “tomorrow? Dammit, I already have plans.”
It was, at least, a truly lovely morning on the beach. The visiting dog leaves on Monday, which is going to hurt like hell, but there you go.
Regretting the Earth (Le regret de la terre), Jules Supervielle
One day, we shall say: ‘That was the time of sunlight,
Remember how it illumined the slightest twig,
The old woman as brightly as the astonished girl,
How it gave a colour to things as soon as it fell,
Kept pace with the galloping horse; halted with him.
It was the unforgettable time when we were on Earth,
Where sound resulted if something was dropped,
We looked about with the eyes of connoisseurs,
Our ears comprehended every nuance of air
And when a friend’s footsteps approached we knew,
We gathered a flower or picked up a polished pebble.
That time when we could never take hold of smoke,
Ah! That’s all our hands know how to take hold of now.’
If I could imitate Piaf’s accent, I would sneer supercilliously now, jab the air violently with a cigarette on an outrageously long cigarette holder and in my sexiest and throatiest voice, I would snarl, “me, I regret everything.” I wouldn’t mean it, but there’s no room for compromise in melodrama. It’s a beautiful poem isn’t it?