Sunday

I am drinking a gin and tonic at this 7.30pm Sunday evening-time, listening to French reggae, thinking about the bees still visiting the calamintha and nepeta outside, the puffy clouds in the September-blue sky, thinking about the week ahead and wondering quite how to do it all; missing One, as MFK Fisher writes, thinking rather sadly of eveything I cannot write at the moment and everything that he cannot write, of__________and _______ and red tape and ___________none of which I can really mention right now. It's a waiting game and it's beginning to tell. There is just a great suspension and not knowing, and wishing.

And a black cat, and planes landing in straight lines through the blue to La Guardia and a terrace freshly watered; heirloom tomatoes in the beginning of a simple sauce for spaghetti, and the knowledge that what one wants isn't anything. It is what we have now that is everything. I have been successful in small ways at realizing that over the last few years, and have profitted from it, and have found what I wanted from taking care of the now. But sometimes the temptation to throw oneself into an unseen and desired future can hijack...because it robs now of everything.

This is not a blog for rants and whining. So just pretend y'all took a wrong turn. Tomorrow it'll all be bright and flowers again.

And on an entirely unrelated note, kind of:

"If you have supped well, for instance, on ham baked with apples and sweet potatoes and a green salad, you will probably agree that the best possible ending to such a savourous meal is a bowl of walnuts which have been roasting in their shells in the hot oven while you ate. Coffee is fine with them, but a glass of port is even better...or an ordinary red wine."

MFK Fisher, from How to Cook a Wolf, The Art Of Eating, 1937.