Where do these Saturdays keep coming from, and why do they so often pretend to be something that they are not? The inner workings of my mind don't always work consistently—they get distracted by softness and the bite taken out of a leaf, or by the argument that couple is having in the doorway of a church just before 7pm; how time can feel slippery, silver, whether or not we have already said that before, maybe even a thousand times.
Right now, here, the air conditioning is louder than my thoughts, and the city of Rio de Janeiro gets on with whatever it's doing outside the closed windows—the skies have seemingly cleared to blue even though there are more thunderstorms on the way, and frigate birds are circling in warm thermals.
THIS WEEK I FELL IN LOVE WITH:
The paintings of LA-based Sally Deng.
The end.
I realise that this didn't contain much (indeed anything) in the way of news, but for the past couple of weeks I've been almost solely working on the written entries for the new book, and it seemed unnecessary to tell you this again. I suppose we had better all go and do Christmas now, because it's certainly not going to wait any longer—hopefully wherever you are you get a chance to sit down, think a lot and then a little, read something, consider.
Farewell, see you next sometime.
Copyright © 2017 Ella Frances Sanders, All rights reserved.