The loneliness seemed to seep in deeper and deeper the more I ambled (almost without purpose) up Long Street and as it in turn seeped into Kloof street.
Late Saturday afternoon.
My almost-without-purpose purpose was Melissa's far up Kloof street with its big sky floor-to-celing shop window in-your-face view on to the in this case majestic The Mountain and its immediate slopes. It's here that I crawl into so that I may have some perpsective on the swind-swept and crazy city bowl below, where I live and have sex.
Long street was bathed in honey-sky sunshine that cheered me, as did the awareness of the many cheek-by-jowl architectural styles telling me amazing stories from other times and languages and places and people.
The southeaster had terrorised, ripped and shredded the city since Thursday; but I heard the kindly Melissas' cashier telling two German tourists that Sunday was going to be a perfect day, that they should book tickets on the cablecar so perfect was it going to be.
The street was in shade then at 15 minutes to 6, as was large parts of The Mountain's steely and then grey-granite slopes.
The shop was quiet and calm and peaceful inside, instantly soothing, and the three people inside were all quietly, deeply absorbed in the things that they are each doing alone: the music was good, just right, and the view - yes, I have every reason to harp upon it - extraordinary.
As much I need to be alone, I'm fighting it... I desperately need perspective and centredness in my Creator as this old chapter closes, the new chapter is opened and the first words written. However, rather than stare into my own abyss (which I'm so damn good at normally doing) I co-dependently crave humans and skin-on-skin to fill the loneliness of the void. But desist I must.
An elderly couple stopped against the wind walk up the hill on the other side of the road. They're holding hands. And walking fast. The music, now instrumental and voiceless has upped the tempo and appears to be in stride with them. A woman with a whingy-whiny voice behind me, at the small round table accompanied by a large but softspoken man that is undoubtedly not hers, gay probably, also lonely, is self-centredly on her mobile to Warren about a movie on Sunday afternoon at 4, so-much-so that I'm doing all that I can to resist throttling her.
Plugging sore holes with people, all birds with some or other level of 'broken wing' syndrome. Just like me.
I wonder about my choices available to me this Saturday night. I fear I might take the same old route I've always walked at similiar junctures.
I am going to thottle her.
Again, today and in our not-speaking, I'm aware that Lee is, despite appearances, is most stable and reliabe and loyal. Despite even knowing that in my core I am incapable of changing myself, nor making things different.
I write to save my life.
I finished Hemingway's The Garden of Eden earlier in the day, which took a most unexpected turn from about half-way. It's also clear from his writing that he was an alcoholic, but while I feared it in the words I also found it delicious and understood it perfectly. And the writing! The end, though, I did not like.
The wind is now howling down the street; I can softly hear it moaning.
[This is a first and rough draft; there's no way I could push send now. I don't have the heart.]
I must go now.
(I remember hoping that I would plant corn that night and not weeds; even as I hoped I knew the chances were that I wouldn't.)