It has felt exceedingly hard to begin. Having the option of delaying the beginning of something is to a large extent a luxurious thing—even so, recognising and repeating this doesn’t seem to make the beginning any easier. And strangely it is sometimes the things you have wanted at longest lengths that are hardest to sit down with, to begin. Why, I wonder, as I sit watching rain disappear into a cold edge of the sea, why is it that when things fall into place in ways I’ve wanted for a long time I seem to go out of my way to avoid them? I wonder, and I watch the rain a bit more.
There have been changes here lately, disruptions, the moving of selves and belongings from one house to another and each time this happens I wholly underestimate the scale of disruption—I should not be surprised that I cannot work properly when the computer is still wrapped up on the floor, when paint and paper and every writing or drawing implement I own sits quietly inside cardboard boxes. But then we needed to paint walls, which takes longer than is reasonable and which leaves paint fumes in every corner of everything for days afterwards.
I’m going to omit the work-related news this time, because most of it I can’t yet speak about and because I’m yet to take photos of the illustrated essay in the Orion spring issue and because I want to include more of what I’m currently reading and thinking about—in both work and non-work contexts, although increasingly I can’t tell one from the other. I will say this though: there are already bees outside paying polite visits to early flowers, I can see small mountains from these windows, you ensured we already have twenty-two houseplants in here, I lit a candle at 3pm and consequently felt ethereal for a split-second, sometimes the green of this place and it’s diamond-shaped road signs cause me to miss the Pacific Northwest, I need to go and measure the bathroom for a shelf.
THIS WEEK I FELL IN LOVE WITH:
Work by New York-based photographer Jasmine Clarke.
“Love, love, catastrophe.”
— Pedro Salinas tr. by Ruth Katz Crispin, from “The Voice I Owe To You”
The end.
Your writing is beautiful. I wish you the best as you settle into the new corners of your home and continue on with new beginnings, as strange and difficult as they might be.