Morning's introspection

[smokingboot]

After five days of trying not to talk, my throat has finally lost that barbed wire sensation and my voice, though husky, can probably survive my next two shifts. Tonight I travel down for two weeks; this looks as though it may become real, and with it comes that sense of consequences and what-ifs.

Returning to London; I am tired of living here. It has been a wonderful place to earth and heal, but somehow our life last year became a round of poverty and sickness, with Paris and Basle as twin lights of sparkling relief. We need a change.

Still, I have done some work I am proud of here. It has not been all dreadful by a long shot.

Returning to London: friends. I have made some very close friends here but they are fewer and harder to reach. Of course, friends in London have changed, the scene has changed, but it feels vital and alive and welcoming.

Returning to London: I think I could find my way among friends there, but would larians be happy? There was always going to be a season when we would leave here, but to go there? My crowd might not be his crowd, some certainly would but my pagan friends? Of course, we don't have to move there; We could go anywhere I could commute and he can commute. We can stay here, but I can feel myself disentangling, ready to go. I'm better at wandering than staying.

There are other places we could move to, other things we could do. Funny, when I was a kid, I wanted to act and write, couldn't make up my mind which. Well, I know now: this whole tv thing is great fun but who knows if it will pay off long term, and there is no reason for it to lead anywhere; Fun they pay me for, that's what it is, and I have yet to see if it pays for itself after the commuting etc. The writing is different, I need a life where I can do that; it's important in a way that most other things aren't.

Of course, this place, for all our trials, has given me that.

I had a dream last night, where I curled up against a stone angel, pressed my head into the moss of its breastbone and was surprised to hear/feel a heartbeat. I had been prepared to tell it I was going away and could not take it with me, it was too big and heavy. But when I felt the heartbeat I thought, if you can make a granite cavity drum so loud then surely you can lift your wings, surely. And if you can do that, you can come with me; but it seemed to have made a home among the leaves and statues of the churchyard, so I didn't want to intrude on its thoughts or force it into movement it didn't want. It stared at me for a long time while rain washed down all around us, and everything smelled clean and new.

London? Don't know, can't tell yet.
New beginning? Yes, right here at my fingertips, in my bones, getting ready.

Comments

[smokingboot.livejournal.com]

Ah,for me it will be the place where I live. The most powerful sense of home I have ever felt was, believe it or not, when I got off a plane in California, and got this most peculiar sense of home, like a booming noise, a resonance in my head. I didn't know what to make of it. I got it again very powerfully in Moscow. Very odd, as I never spent any portion of my childhood in either place...