She bit her lip and it took him more than a decade to understand what it meant. Now he bites his lip from time to time and has no idea what it means, only the uncertainty.
She goes to bed at about seven, to not have to be awake.
It only takes one sun to make day. In her town there are two. Half of the year they go hand in hand. The other half they take turns; one appears as the other goes away.
By then she finds it difficult to go to bed at about seven, to not have to be awake. She fears summer this time of year. Bites her tongue, util it’s sore.
The Kona—the bike for those who don’t keep track of bike brands—has followed me through thick and thin for more than a decade. I don’t know which is thick and which is thin but there has been plenty of both. Late last year I was afraid that its time was up when I couldn’t screw in a new bottom bracket. Panic is a better word for it. To my surprise and delight a local bike shop was able to fix, my heart flew.
I should make better use of it as a transport unit for photography related matters, I hadn’t meant to say anything about that, no less true because, in spite of that. Oh well.
Now, two months later, and I am still being childishly happy that it still rolls. That’s all.
Oh. Kona in my language means woman, or wife. I never refer to the bike as she though. Rarely does the terribly joke about my wife slip past my lips. Just as well. Embarrassingly it has. Don’t have one, no plans, and—as much as I love it—not married to the bicycle. Now that’s all. Promise.
Homes* are now further away than images from a summer** were when they were ages away. As in more than ten versus less than eight. Years.
Just pondering some about time and the sense of it and the lack of it.
*an actual project title, a working one at least.
**also a title but more of a collection that kind of happened, not by coincidence but almost, shortened from images from a summer some years ago.
Both awaiting, something.
You know when you are moving through the land, your body feels good and step by step the terrain disappears under your feet and you feel like you could run like this halfway into forever and then you start noticing that you are being chased or followed by something or someone but there isn’t anyone there and you don’t know what or who it is, something or someone that is pulling you from behind, by the neck it seems, making each step increasingly difficult, pushing you down as one foot still moves in front of the other and you start feeling this brick of pain in your chest, tainted by fear but mostly pain, sorrow, and you cannot shake loose from it and you stop, turn around, asking, not immideately seeing any logical answers, start moving again and it or s/he still follows, still keeping a firm grip on your neck, and the trail continues, almost in a straight line it leads away from the cluster of houses and the people occupying them and further towards where there aren’t others, only land and sky that is about to change colours, and—perhaps—what or whoever it is that is following every step you take, weighing you down, by your neck?
For a moment I think I am in a different store, one I have never been in before, in an unknown city. Then I realize I can read the labels. It’s more disappointing than I would have expected.
She kisses me, I kiss her back. There is something not right about this but we keep at it. Perhaps it’s just me, no it can’t be. This should not be happening.
My feet are always wet when I wake up. After rain that is. The tent is rather filthy, I try to convince myself that it isn’t worth cleaning, that I should toss it.
The number of good people around is overwhelming. There is, somehow, nothing that can be done about it.