My cat is curled against my leg. He seems to be glued to me these days. Every time I look at his whiteness and redness and the cool ice green in his eyes I’m overcome by him. I worried I wouldn’t be able to orientate my life around another individual again after I lost my little brother, but here I am planning my meals around what I want to share with my cat’s oversensitive digestive system.
So I’m not that drained, am I? My heart was pounding when I woke this morning. I didn’t feel like I could rise. I’ve been working eighty plus hours a week for months and now I’ve just stopped, the gallery is closed, yet again I’m asking myself what I’m supposed to be doing. And my little friend is stuck to me, lectures me if I’m gone for too long, complains that he really must be dying of starvation, how could I eat a whole bowl of ice cream without at least giving him enough to live off.
I mean, what is going on? I tried walking next to the lake in the fog and rain and how far could I get before I’d dropped my umbrella and stretched my arms out? Fifteen minutes and I’m giggling like a little girl and saying hello to the trees. My feet are still wet; I even took a nap in between.
Now where am I going? I was in a long cool corridor, at least the breeze was cool, and she was there at the end: sheer blue blowing past and yet holding still. She puts a knife in my hand, and tells me to use it. She says I need to cut open my dimensions, and enter the opening.
I’m feeling withdrawn. I feel my writing has yet again become so esoteric and vague it’s probably useless to the rest of you. It’s not my intention, it’s my only way of working through this in public.