sometimes you have to #wonder about the #rain. it was one of those times today. i #wondered about the #rain as i lay there on the grass. we always think of #rain in england as a cold, miserable experience, wind blowing it under umbrellas as we gather together outside tube stations and under bus stops. but this is not that #rain. how can the same #water falling from the same #clouds be so different in here? there is no wall, no border. we are still in england. nothing has changed. everything is different. it is warm, a bath that doesn’t #simply surround but floats in the breathless air and sticks to what can only be called #clouds of breath that can’t be seen but can be felt as the swirl around us. i am certain that i will be soaked just as thoroughly by this #rain as i would by the #water that breaks umbrellas and earns the curses of commuters but there is no frustration, no annoyance here. i feel enjoyment in a way that #water in the #sky should never in my mind be capable of creating.
it was the best of times; it was the worst of times. time, in fact, stood still for her, peering longingly into the #water as it circled the drain. it was her custom to step out of the #bath and be dry by the time the #water had finally gurgled into the arcane pipework but she felt stunned to the point of inaction. time not only stood still but stopped her from standing at all. it was, after all, bedtime and darkness had fallen on the small cottage as #water poured hot and steaming from the antediluvian faucet, moistening porcelain and warming the cold room as bubbles and salts mixed with steam and caused apple blossoms to fill the december night as it would be in september. plunging up to her neck in the #water, splashing the #floor without even noticing, holding her breath and her head under the #water until it would appear to an observer that she was testing the limits of her lungs’ capacity to spontaneously cease respiration. she was typically calm. it was different this time. calm had not given way to mania, happiness, relief, or even their sad counterparts. this was shock. carla sat rigid watching the #clock on the wall #simply say seven minutes past eight, #morning or evening making no difference, realizing only after minutes’ contemplation that the #clock itself had no power to move and was stuck, much like carla herself. it was that #morning that gin had left her. left in the conclusive sense, that is, not in the leaving for work as they had done every day since their wedding. when carla awoke, gin was already dressed, sitting on the end of the bed, suitcase at her feet. she #simply said “i don’t need time. i don’t need to think. i know that it’s over. #please try to #survive without me. i won’t stop loving you but i cannot stay.”
hearing through new eyes.
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image as humanity’s defining language.
myth four — shakespeare is dead.
he is. but writing isn’t. there is plenty of good writing to be done and much of it is of better quality than shakespeare. you can think of the bard as a historical example of what you may one day become. shakespeare is not the be-all and end-all of writing quality. he was a master in his field. and there are many more.