Seapoint

I only had one coffee today, no sugar, with flat-cigar pancakes gritty with brown-sugar-cinnamon, soaked with most wonderful acid-squeezed from lemon chunks. For breakfast. With two table level girls eyeing the swimming pool on what was one of many (haha) first days of this summer.

I thought of Christmas trees and Christmas, happily and longingly; a moonchild moment of a 6-year old me in summer pyjamas with big mince pie eyes waiting for my first watch and camera. Ok maybe I'm collapsing the years and mixing memories, but that's - ok - with ME.

Releasing myself from self-imposed pressure - to do this and to do that all before then - I floated gaily, lightly through the weekend holding hands with the Page of Pentacles. I'd put myself under way too much pressure, and then collapsed at its end, of the first half of my life.

We're all going to die.
But we do get to choose how we want to live.
Is this the person you want to be?
Is this the person you want to love?
Make a decision. Then let the consequences unfold (they're out of your hands).

It was a blue sky day.

The mountain was hot and granite-stark against the sky. The knuckled spine of great trees along both sides of Ravensburg-Newlands, cool and lush with viper-green leaves, no longer rememory me of the skeletal claws that previously scratched the winter sky. Not that long ago.

Then red wine, heat, crisps and a happy-smiling-curly haired toddler still mashing-squawking new words. And old friend's company, the heady pleasure of.

Then instagram, and ice cream, and esplanade in Seapoint; also thoughts of Lawrence G Green, writer, who once lived here, dying I think in 1973.

Home slowly via the gaudy Bo-kaap; tea with yesterday-very fresh grenadilla cake on the deck outside my attic room: I counted my succulents in the dark while winking back at the evening star and thinking what is the one thing a writer could do write now.