No.171

This short, dragging month has for the most part been defined by small birds outside—goldfinch, siskin—and by migraines on the right side of the head, by a lot of work done rapidly and then days of aimlessness, by looking-towards but also away-from, and by all the surrounding rivers rising quickly within a short space of time.

You brought home from work two of the tiniest bird feathers I’d ever laid eyes on gasp gasp gasp, and I’m running out of primary white and sepia paint. I’ve listened to piano music a lot but only one single album on repeat, and when I collected another book from the library this past Thursday I was surprised to find it was smaller than my hand. I bought hand cream because it seemed like something I should do, the young quince tree in the garden has started to turn green at its furthest ends, in fact a lot of things outside have if you look closely, but streetlights still push away the stars and I can’t help but see all of the plastic collecting at the edges of everything.

We are all so at sea in our words, so soaked in them, and I have been finding myself envious of speechless things, and of the weather that says nothing but implies a lot and ultimately decides who goes where and does what. I wait to eat the red grapes from the fridge until they have acclimatised to room temperature, and I dreamt several times of the mountains covered in snow although we weren’t there to walk in it. The two aubergines in the oven were only supposed to stay in for an hour, and though I forgot about them until just now they don’t seem to have suffered negatively after almost double the required time.

Yesterday the postman moved a boiled sweet to one side of his mouth to ask when the power had come back on, so I said only fifteen minutes ago, and that was that. I think too about how tired we’ll be when we’ve finished packing up all the books, and about what it feels like for those people who believe they’ve found exactly and entirely what they were looking for, and if you were to measure the heaviness of all the assuming and assumption in the world how much that might amount to.

A BOOK I AM RETURNING TO:

I’m returning to this book in the sense that it is taking a good while to read. At 1,024 pages it is enough to tire wrists rapidly, and two thirds of the way through I still haven’t found any suitable reading positions to account for its literal—and emotional—weight. I’ve also found it necessary to insert library books on the days when Ducks, Newburyport feels too dense, which did in fact amount to most of February.

THIS WEEK I FELL IN LOVE WITH:

Intricate beaded tapestries by Australian artist Camille Laddawan, which are quite unlike anything I’ve seen before. There is a personal depth and highly considered process behind these beautiful pieces, the details of which she goes into within this Design Files interview.

After all, we are in the business of carrying on, the business of kinder, the business of letting down gently and if there are other businesses then I suppose I do not wish to entertain them any longer.