don't you know i tried so hard to love you in my way?
there's a thick haze hanging over the city tonight, blocking the stars and the moon from sight but not from mind.
the past few days have been incredibly satisfying. i've secretly been terrified about this time for the past four months. an in-between time, a time where things are shifty. unsolid. nostalgic. there's so many things ending, and so many things beginning. rounds of goodbyes and hellos leave empty places and electric shocks in my system, a kind of sensory overload that seems to have culminated in the assertion that yes, in myself there rests a certain kind of tradition, a throwback to what i've always thought of as before.
i've spent time in bed reading charles de lint, eating slices of pear and hazelnut chocolates. i've washed the floor on my hands and knees. i've meade bread twice, washed out cupboards, reacted violently to laundry detergent. tonight i went to leslie's and in just under two hours put together an entire meal - herb whole wheat bread, roasted chicken, double layer chocolate cake, green salad, asparagus and beans steamed - from scratch that made a couple a generation older than me exclaim in delight.
this is all i want to do. i have to find some way to live before.
days filled with soft cleaners, real linen and heavy wool, fresh bread, double layer chocolate cakes, lace, open windows, fresh cut flowers, wood polish, rag rugs, books, fresh fruit, sunshine tea, coloured glass pierced with sunlight, and, most importantly, people.
people who somehow benefit from my before. somehow, i have to make my before their now, find a way to meld the two into something comprehensible and cohesive and livable and doable. something able.
it's kind of like the haze hanging in the sky - the stars still sing and the moon still smiles, even when the heavy wet banks enfold the skyline like wet wool weighs on your shoulders in the midst of a summer storm.