edits -like haircuts- begin with sharp edges

Listening to Joanna Newsom– Ys.

I woke suddenly at 6:30 this morning and almost had trouble returning to sleep. But it didn’t last. (That trouble is one that never lasts with me. Not in the morning, anyway,)

In one dream, the cabin we were in was derelict and decrepit and had no glass in the windows; no door in the doorway. We ran the risk of bears, and finally one came in. I remembered not to run, but stood terrified, inches from its face. It left finally, but we decided we really needed a better place to stay.

In another, I was told, “No, don’t trouble yourself” –in a situation where it was clear the wording was meant to cover an unwillingness on the speaker’s part, not mine.

During an outing of errand-running yesterday I was visited by some nameless sadness as I walked. It didn’t last, but neither was it an imaginary sadness. It may have been the creeping wistfulness of autumn, having got the timing mixed up due to the sudden lack of humidity.

In other news, last night I cut a fair few inches of my long hair off. That always feels like a big deal; if you’ve never had long hair, well, you may not understand, but maybe you can sympathize. (Since I’ve not posted any photos  here, my previous hair was halfway down my back. Pretty long.)

This evening, as I washed dishes while awaiting company, an antique glass broke in my soapy, too-strong hand. It traced fine red lines almost impossible for bandages to follow, but I staunched the bleeding. That moment was happily  followed by a delightful chilled French rosé, and friends arriving. Summer renders all things less upsetting than they might be in the grey dead of winter; no dispute.

Sunshine– long days; the pregnancy of possibility in every long sunlit hour, however fictional– Like no day really need end, until one wishes it so, of tiredness; of over-enjoyment (if such a thing be possible– and it is)– I don’t blame or hate winter for its cold; I simply love summer for that feeling of interminable potential that it fools and lulls us into, every year, year after year.  I’ll never tire of it. It is a tidal thing.

(Imagine one ever tiring of the moon changing her shape.)

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