May 25th, 2005
quiet spring

You wake to an empty house. The Quiet is broken by the sound of a cat tipping his water dish over. Klump, gush. A brief flood of sadness, husband is on a plane somewhere headed in the opposite direction to here. Thoughts drift to the last time you were apart, a few tears burn your eyes. You will join him in a few short days. But today must be started so you rise, and shuffle sleepily down the creaky stairs with your fuzzy overweight feline brushing your legs.
Tea and toast with Getrude Stein and Ernest Hemingway. A quick jaunt into Shakespeare and Co. to speak to Sylvia Beach for a moment, she tells you that James Joyce should be in later that day as is his custom. Dishes. Bathroom.
You don your favourite black boots (with the laces) and mud on the sole, wearing your red shirt with snap buttons, your brown cordoroy pants, green sweater and a rust colored hat. No journal today, you want to sit and absorb it all, be present with the sun and the smells and the activity. Sometimes writing pulls you out of the world and into your head, sometimes it does the opposite but you know that today is for being outside and feeling your body move about the world.
You step outside and you can’t believe how perfect the day is, how good the sun feels as you tie the sweater around your waist. The woods feel happy and awake, everything is blooming. White trilliums everywhere, pink apple blossoms, yellow wildflowers. The breeze brings the smell of cedar and blue dragon flies float on the current. You find the perfect hole in the bottom of a tree. a door. And you make a note to yourself to bring a pen when you come back tomorrow so you can write a sign that reads “knock first before entering”.
You pick some apple blossoms to put in the old green enamel coffee pot. In this moment you think they are the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.
*************
some simple words from E.H.
“It was a pleasant cafe, warm and clean and friendly, and I hung up my old waterproof on the coat rack to dry and put my worn and weathered felt hat on the rack above the bench and ordered a cafe au lait. The waither brought it and I took out a notebook from the pocket of the coat and a pencil and started to write.”

May 26 2005
8:52 pm
Keri Smith writes:

Daphne,
My husband is a musician, so I am now used to hearing guitar being played on a regular basis, and a lot of flamenco. The absence of it is jarring at first.
I do love the quiet though.

May 26 2005
8:52 pm
Keri Smith writes:

Daphne,
My husband is a musician, so I am now used to hearing guitar being played on a regular basis, and a lot of flamenco. The absence of it is jarring at first.
I do love the quiet though.


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