Smiler’s photographs (I called her that; she had a lovely smile and smiled a lot, this old woman whose age I now approach – not there yet – practically immobile, she was, and I dash this, a mode I keep on falling into).
Histories mixed upon that blanket.
My mother was so pleased with them, two alike.
She had inherited old grey and brown and beige – I’ve said this before – from her mother who –
These, with pink as a frame top and bottom to their grey.
So new those pink stripes made the blankets look.
So woolly and warm and soft, not scratchy at all. I sometimes sleep directly under the blanket itself and not the sheet first. Somehow, the blanket itself, just one of them, gives me the correct amount of warmth over my burning-hot body, enough to keep the cool of the room from me but let my own body-heat through.
This osmosis – my favourite word – this osmosis . . .
But a mixture of personal stories there as weft and warp, my own joining too.
My mother – and letters of condolence at Smiler’s brother’s death . . .
This – an imperfection that attempts to say something.
There are times when you just need to recognise that, despite your anxiety about death being just around the corner, and things not done – there is more to this than I say here – just let it flow – there is the back of beyond – there is the olden days – time gone past – there is a rushing which I avoid.
Sometimes, just jot – like now – don’t plan out what you are going to say – take heed of your thought that you haven’t posted for a long time – maybe you should – keep in the loop, I once said of that – and maybe it’s important, or I wouldn’t have paid my dues again this year.
Don’t think too much.
Trust your own forward-motion.
Heidegger – had a thing about being in your past, your present and your future all at the same time – and I liked that – so what is this ‘forward-motion’ I’m talking about?
I have spent some time sorting out old photographs that have come from my husband’s side of the family.
There are so many of them. This is not the first time I have gone through them but, in one of the boxes, there was a note I had left for myself that I had only so far gone through ‘this lot’.
Dozens of tiny snaps stuffed into envelopes.
More that one set of sets – that had been developed and sent to other family members – and came back again to us (me) as they died off.
I am a repository.
I am not delighted with this task, these images – I suspect I am talking of something else now – I am – some deep memories have started to surface during this – I’ll be here forever, it seems, with these.
But there is no other way through it.
I am resentful.
Let’s get real.
Not differences, one year to the next, or one season to the next, or one – I keep on forgetting the words, but ‘era’ might do here – one era to the next.
I’m old enough to remember the truths of – years ago now.
How they change. The magazines exhort the latest things – what to reach for; what is currently desirable; let’s change our minds about a few things and call it progress.
A dead-end here; a dead loss.
A misunderstanding so acute as to cut.