11 April 2020. World.
A quiet garden in Berkeley. My place, I guess. All these years feeling I was from somewhere else--or belonged somewhere else. Berkeley never quite felt like home--all the people with attitudes--views strongly held, with or without merit. Insistent arguers. Like the King pool--exchanges in the shower room, the veiled political challenges. But why dwell on this, when it's a beautiful gray morning, the kind of day that blends town and sky--everything muted and glowing, the high grass shooting up (thank you, B) now that its spring. I see Goose, master of the domain--Nicola and Natasha no more (is there a cat heaven?). He leaps through his green meadow, into the air, more out of exuberance than anything (although there may be a bug at hand.) The other day playing with one of Lydia's granddaughters--almost still a fawn--who dipped her head, then pulled it back, feinting surprise. The two of them...
And my table, just inside the window. I built it on California Street--that was many years ago. In the small garage. The top was painted Kelly green--it never quite worked. And now, a sheet of brown cardboard, taped and retaped in places, with tea glass and the small bowl for walnuts and raisins. Just the walnuts in the morning. Alesia brought them, from somewhere out in the Valley. And a bag of Golden California Raisins... (I like Thompson's, but these must have looked the best--she told me so...)
No FaceTime right now (a hint of C's face on the screen...) just the quiet of drawing and writing. I look forward to it so--makes sense of these year-long days. Which somehow add up--I mean, they seem fulfilled, necessary even, a new kind of harvest--where each memory (yesterday's figure all in white, or the song) takes on a new and pointed meaning--at least at times, as we fall back into the world...
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My place for now...
