The thought that I really wanted to put here, at least in the shape I had in mind, has melted away, but I will try anyway.
Because every moment feels like such a permanent thing – and like something of very finite supply – I have been feeling more and more like I need to choose each action with great care. Progressing through life feels a little like trying to craft some delicate precision instrument – a musical one meant to produce a very specific chord, or a scientific one meant to learn something subtle about the universe.
I should realize that it’s impossible to fit your life precisely to any plan you have, but there are still certain things I’m certain I want. Perhaps if I’m careful I can balance them all just right.
It always feels like the saddest thing to think that some lovely thing will Never happen again – or that a small floating dream you had will Never happen at all. The future is an infinite tree of possibilities, you could say, and as you move forwards every possibility not taken is sheared away forever.
I’m speaking some melancholy nonsense here, I’m sorry. I’ve been making a list of what I want to do, and it seems to grow much faster than I can check it off.
But I’ll keep at it.
Cake gets along with the haus folk quite well, and is happy to climb to their porch by roof or stairway whenever they congregate outside. Hannah opened the door to find Cake waiting there comfortably after we went inside; the cats have made the place a second home.
These interspecies friendships are important. It’s good for the heart to get a little nonhuman perspective.
the person you are together
These jellies were left hanging on our balcony by the previous tenants, and now they clatter in the breeze every now and then. The sun brings their shadows to life for a few hours each day; later on my hanging prism casts rainbows across the ceiling, so each passing hour has its own flavor.
It’s been good day, populated with nice little things like this.
scared of getting older
I hoped to capture the eclipse tonight, but as the moon was eaten away the clouds grew thicker, hiding the last crumbs. While I waited for a chance opening in the sky, I disappeared into some books, stopping intermittently to check on the moon.
No luck, but tea and stories make for a fine evening nonetheless, and now I’m ready for bed. The moon will blush another night; it’s fine that it was shy this time.
A long stretch of flowers has suddenly bloomed along the path to Bridges – the biggest garden I’ve ever seen, and so full of color when I pass it in the sun. I took a moment to look closer today, and found this anemone swaying between the petals. Perhaps there was a clownfish hiding in the grass, eager to come back to its home once I went away.
Here Laurel stands at the edge of a deep wooden precipice, one slip away from a tragic fall to the distant roots below. The chasm is, remarkably, formed from a single massive tree whose trunk has split into six separate entities; they form a broad canopy above our heads and this vast crevasse below. In some points the woodwork seems molten, or like stretched webbing; it’s an alien sort of place to navigate, and something worth exploring if you can find the right handholds.
Trees can grow so oddly – like poets trying to develop new styles, searching for a form that’s never existed before.
I think I like this best out of context, to leave the listener as baffled as possible; this made sense only in the moment, and passing years will only make it more confusing.
More importantly, though, I now have a small bottle of Laurel’s voice – something worth remembering, just as yours is.