Being away for a time―nearly long enough―I find the words cumbersome and myself graceless with them so rather than write what today I won’t; I can only offer notes scratched in a small book carried the long way from there to here and back:
Words lovely to slip into conversation: mrholenie drizzle, plod mučenky passion fruit, pri stanice by the station.
Praha Hlavní nádraží 7:39 – Brno Hlavní nádraží 10:19
1) Techno music playing―and now Spice Girls
2) in the Burger King
3) at twenty minutes to eight. a.m
4) But why visit Burger King when there is a Schnitzel King just next door?
5) “Hit Me Baby One More Time”
Then―at last―I sit in the garden, where the sun is so heavy it leaves a fingerprint on my skin. Heavy warmth, in a village, in the sunlight, at the end of the day. The sun is long; the winter is not wasted.
In the yard, the little boy is given a task, and for one only three and-a-half years old, he is remarkably self-disciplined; he finishes watering the plants before creating a puddle to jump in.
Why had I not thought before
of outside?
She dislikes the steady―but who could prefer the rush and crash and tremulous to this a buried humming?
But then―here it is, and it is a city. Corrosive, and distinctly odorous, and yet―the sun, a thumb-print. It was a good thing, to live here. It is all, in retrospect―and I am breathing.
“Those were good days…Nothing happens; one simply lives and breathes and wishes for more, and nothing more.”
Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf
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