Sunday, March 10, 2013
Sunday blue flower
I spent most of the evening in the bath, reading and sipping on a squeaky clean white wine glass of sepia coloured sherry. I had run a deep bath of hot foamy water as protection against the storm that was raking and scratching at me through the open stuck window; flakey acid-brown rust had long ago frozen it halfway open-closed.
This not so old but dilapidated home has never shrunk from putting its long thin arms around me, not even from the first day that I set foot here. Little did I know at that time just how dilapidated I was, nor how close I was to breaking down; Rome was burning while I fiddled and faffed. Neither did I know that within months I would be living here too; in love, recuperating. Broken and jagged at my edges, I was a bloody manic mess of severed raw nerve-ends.
Seven months later, mended and rested, I leave here in the morning. I'm adamant it's temporary - a new chapter needs writing, but that's all I know. Not completely sure whether this home and Salt Rock will play a further role, I heap on prayers and blessings.
The pot plant in the entrance hall: A flower is fading and leaves are dying.
My heart knows no fear.