Toc, toc, toc. I peel one eye open. Toc, toc. I close it again. The house we're in is made out of wood and we're close to the sea. So perhaps this indeterminable noise might be somehow connected to either or both. I exhale and peek up at the slated ceiling. Someone will make coffee soon. Usually not me.
My parallel life involves a farm with rescued animals. They occupy most of my time. I also have a pickup truck and wear a broad-brimmed hat. My husband of ten years has a bit of a belly, due to the amount of biscuits we consume. Naturally they don't show on me one bit. My parallel metabolism deals with chocolate, ice cream and biscuits in a stern and effective manner.
A planet in orbit of the sun has lost her sense of time and space. She circles in repetitive contentment around the one that gives her life, that nurtures and feeds her addiction. There is nothing unpleasant about her existence and yet a lingering feeling persists. Is this what existence is meant to be like?
Priscilla had a lot on her plate. So this was outrageous. How could this silly rat of a physician suggest that she walk! What did he mean "walk"?! Walk where? Priscilla knew from the moment she entered his practice that she’d made a mistake. She should have never listened to Alibert. Alibert was her husband and they had been together for the better part of their lives during which they had made approximately 327 children ...
There is an underlying network that either tightens or loosens whenever you find yourself in the company of friends. And of strangers. Anyone who at one point in their life worked in theatre knows that it can be a hostile home, a place where one might not always feel welcome. A place of competition and unrest. And yet there is a structure which holds a theatre together, a structure of love, of passion and of kindness.
I am in London and I can see the stars tonight. They're glistening and I wonder if the sensation has always been like this. I cannot remember the soles of my feet from when I was younger. London and I have grown apart during years of separation. There appears to be nothing left to connect us to the other and yet a feeling lingers.
The skeleton fish lay on that beach. It hadn’t lived in a year or so. Sand grind down its delicate frame with one eye turned up toward the sky. It was an eye intact, not feasted upon like the other. The skeleton fish knew of its demise, alas its journey here was dubious. How had it come to this?
There it was, my happy place, in the South of France. Each time upon entering I was reassembled into a new draft of myself. For hours I would stare at the sea. I would write, and eat, and sleep. And sometimes I would walk in the garden. Alone.
Sometimes the tiny lady opens the windows at both ends of her apartment and along with the odd lost insect an airy breeze flows through. For an instant the oh so opposite sides of the house are connected: the northern façade along the street with the southern façade facing jungled trees.