…let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room. — I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.
Miss Bingley’s statement rings in my ears now and then, generally for no apparent reason. Though I’m sure my subconscious has one, or else it wouldn’t encourage me to look with different eyes or feel with different things that feel.
Lately I’ve been seeking comfort, which I find briefly in the most unexpected places. A memory surfaced today with no source of inspiration other than the need for it.
I had a recurring dream when I was in high school of knocking on my own front door and seeing myself open the door to greet me. I looked at myself, not as I would in a mirror but as I would an outsider looking in (quite literally). I saw myself standing in the doorway clad head-to-toe in Ralph Lauren wearing a sweater I’d been eyeing in the awake world and riding boots, which I’d never owned, for riding a horse that I never rode. The dream never went beyond my standing on the front steps looking at a warm and happy me.
I felt that warm and happy person squirming around on the inside of me this morning.
. . . .
The wine did a real number on me. It wasn’t the wine as much as it was the wine’s interaction with one of my medications. When did I drink that small glass? Yes, one small glass. Sunday, I think. Today I was able to think more clearly and function like a normal human, but my mind is still in a bit of a fog. And I feel numb, like I got a shot of … whatever that is that doctors and dentists use … all in my brain and body; like a lump of clay, needing to be kneaded
and painted and glazed and fired;
like a mold brought to life
by something as simple as letters typeset
. . . . . . . . . . . .