There was so many details I marked in my head yesterday. A thousand little things I wanted to recall for you. All the little bits and pieces of the first day here. Now, they have flooded together in this miasma of experience. The city, the trains, baggage, a slow aching walk for 2 miles with 200 pounds. The crumpet shop being closed by the late hour we arrived. A $17 dollar omelet ordered in delirium. Cold oily potato left-overs eaten with bike-greased fingers and a piece of wilted lettuce in between us. Something about the game, sexuality, violence not being a public discussion. Dice being rolled beside tea going cold…
I can’t recall it all. Only this-
Everything came in. The bikes, in perfect condition. I lost a useless rubber stopper on the end of my rear-fender. It’ll probably snag my trousers one day. Oh bem ikdedo.
Now. There’s a keyboard in our room with a genuine amplifier. My little djembe made the trip all nice and safe. We miss our strings and wattage left behind, but there will come a time.
There’s this sizzling excitement riding underneath my skin. It reverberates at practically anything. You found two pairs of jeans in less than an hour. We went to a coffee bar and they are hiring. We rode down the street and our hearts came back to life. We are wet and cold, but getting less fat – less lazy. We are drinking water in huge gulps, soaking up life.
This sizzling nervous happiness will fade. We’ll sit and talk like adults.
Even that thrills me. Did you know? How could you.
My blood is singing and my mind is racing and I’m terrified that I’ll fall off again.
That ledge where I come crashing down is always waiting.
But wait- there’s this glimmer of hope that’s been being threaded through my life. It’s hard to notice but easy to hold on to when you know it’s there. Call it optimism, call it realism, call it just getting tired of the desperation.
Whatever it is, I think I’ll hold on to it.
Darkness, inevitably, will come again. Winter is just one season of four. Round and round the ciclakumei we go. Never staying, never stopping. One turn is just another chance to grow. The arch is ever-bending and the cycles come round on themselves.
Soon, it will be such a hot summer that we’ll ache for the snow.
And when the summer dims, we will yearn for it’s warmth.
What strange patterns we tend to go in.