Outside feels like Norway, the ominous threat of rain hanging over us, spreckling us a little, but not quite letting go. It's gray and cold, but cold in that summer in the fjords way, cold enough for a couple of layers and flip-flops, under the awning, buried into a deep chair that smells of India. Today even the hawk who lives on the ridge of Horseshoe Canyon is quiet. Minks is on vacation and on best behaviour as I've confiscated her computer. She visits me occasionally and shows me her latest projects - photographs and stickers cut and pasted into little books, labelled in curly, childish writing, ribbons around the edges. We had adventures this morning, some birthday shopping, some lunch, some giggling, and now we're both working silently, she inside and me out, she in a coccoon of pink and white, me in green - spiky flax, feathery eucalytpus, and underside of olive. I like this kind of alone-ness, when she is here and chattering, just a room away from me. It's hard, the alone time. Kurt Anderson did a show on it this week, with a novelist. I've downloaded it and plan to listen to it alone, walking the dog.
"Visions of Argentina in my head, plans for everyone... it's in the whites of my eyes", (with apologies to Bowie and swastikas). Huechahue dances around in my mind and I'm trying to write about it, but finding a way in that does it justice is not easy.
I love my husband. I would like that to be noted. And it's not because of the rolled pork he made last night.
