510
20 degrees, gold-dusted streets, the smell of bbq, japonica everywhere. I came in to find open windows, the white orchid is in full bloom, avocados are ripe, our kitchen smells of lime and chopped cilantro, you know exactly where this is going -–
517
Planned to make a veggie wrap and do an hour of yoga. Instead, I came home, made fruit compote and ate it with a bowl of ice cream. Still haven’t done yoga. Tummy ache. Its been raining off and on. The sky lightened fifteen minutes ago, I went to the window because for some reason I thought there might be a rainbow. There wasn’t. Just several grays, and the clouds were particularly white. Speaking of, I am really into white wines lately. First time in my life.
520
Childhood returns to me in the spring. High in the branches of old trees, the aimless float and fish through rivers, the green of grass, before summer blazed through and turned it all brown. We laid in the green, it whispered things to us, we created life in the clouds until in a nearer distance we heard the ice cream truck and went running to my father’s coin bucket. He kept in his top dresser drawer, we searched it desperately for a quarter. Just one quarter. That’s all we needed. Even though two dimes and a nickel would have worked, we didn’t know it. The ice cream man always said, “That’ll be a quarter,” and by the time we were old enough to understand the value of money, we’d lost the desperation for ice cream.
524
Woke up long before the alarm this morning, no idea what time it was. Time stays on the other side of the bed, and its hard to judge by the sun these days. I stood at the window, watching, nothing breathing, a moment of silence, twenty whole minutes of silence, not even the wind stirred. Everything slept, except for the light. It and it alone moved. Until something blinked in the corner. I think it could have been a squirrel.
525
Back here, people are just talking. They don’t want to hear the music. Not the renowned pianist/violinist who is banging away at his electrical guitar. People came for the french composer, not a slovenly guy who could’ve washed up from south florida. And I’ve already told you where I stand.
527
Central Station. I hate when the Swedes act like they have no idea what I’m talking about when I say Central Station. Maybe they don’t like the sound of it, as I don’t care much for T-Centralen. Sounds like a Russian spacecraft. Well, at least they know something about comfortable benches. I’ve never seen so many vacant ones. So why did the woman want to sit on this bench? She asked me to scoot over, when three empty benches surrounded me on both sides. Maybe she doesn’t like being alone, I can understand that. I’m only here until the rain stops. Clouds scroll so quickly above these nordic islands, its unbelievable. I was annoyed to be here at first- for having to stop. But now I feel so calm, maybe it was a good thing. To stop. To remember why I love train stations. To draw in the ink and let it breathe on the page, however it may.
