Perhaps I am not like you. Perhaps when all is said and done I do a very bad job of holding things together. Of remaining authentic when authenticity is the only thing I’ve got.
You will read this and not know what I’m talking about. I hardly know what I’m talking about. Some stories, you see, are not mine to tell. And so this is what it is, a never ending stream of conscience I cannot help but commit to my Chronicles. It is what it is. No more.
This house, I think tells my story best. It is in fact the most intuitive barometer of my mood.
Today there was a crushed biscuit on the staircase. A box of lego, scattered where he had left it. A wine glass kissed by the salve I am constantly rubbing into my lips, abandoned on the table. And more than that, a cobweb wrapped right around the house. Dancing between the rose bushes and weaving a lacy curtain between me and the rest of the world.
If my legs are shaved, I will have forgotten where the hoover lives. If my writing is going well, I forget to wash my hair and find cucumbers dying an undignified death in the debris of last weeks shopping. Lately I forget to eat. Go through the motions without feeling any of it. Wrapped up in my own little world. Laughing like a loon at this (Don’t hassle the Hoff!! Is he deranged??), and knowing inside that only this makes sense.
It isn’t Mark. I know you think it is. But it isn’t. That last piece about him was a goodbye. A "have a nice life". It isn’t him. The thought of having him and his eternal disappointment hanging around the place again makes me shudder…
It’s me. There is a stranger amongst us and she’s wearing my clothes and crying herself to sleep. Falling out with people she adores and aching for New York. Or New England. Or even (God forbid) New Brighton. Anywhere but here.
Sometimes I forget what I’m for. Forget what this blog is supposed to be about. Drift down roads that reveal too much and find myself eager to share parts of me that confuse everybody else. What once was about lavender and lemons has become so much more lately. More obtuse I know, but darlings, bear with me because I suspect that this too will pass and before you know it I will be back to making sense and telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing, friends, but the truth about what it is that makes a house a home that will heal you. Celebrate you. And wrap you in pretty cobwebs just when you need them most.
Tonight it is just me. A box of flaked truffles at my side, fuzzy thoughts in my head and no light other than a scattering of tealights on my bedside table. Later I will watch a film I don’t understand for the third time in a month. Wander around Paris with Celine and Jesse and try to make sense of it all. Of transcience and opportunity. Patience and the art of delayed gratification.
Tomorrow my friend will give birth to her second baby. And next week I will go and stay in Oxford. With Helen. Three storeys of vanilla scented hallways , sinks perfumed by hyacinths and an all white guest-room that reminds me why my life is too loud. Why I can’t think straight for longer than it takes to burn a piece of glutton free toast.
Anywhere but here. Tonight. Alone.
Beam me up Scottie. Soon as you can.