This weekend’s review: some article, some film review, some report written, but nowhere near enough. 2nd novel submitted (again), more trilogy written and worlds built. Seeded spelt bread baked for the first time (delicious, minus extra spices and also — what the hell kind of giant kitchen with its giant mixing bowls and giant ovens does that man take for granted?) and wine drunk. Exercise had. Some deadlines will be missed.
To be able, using only the power of my mind, to force any kind of buzzing flying thing in the house to fly right on back out of the window it came in through…
There is even now a mad crashing of cicadas. Their buzzing comes in waves from all sides, they are angrier here than at home, louder. As you approach they cannot leap to stillness but must wind down slowly, a whirr and a whirr and a whirr and a whirr. Then there is silence. They jump into a full blast of sound again, louder than before, but behind you this time as you pass. They bring me happiness, like the quick slender lizards that move so quickly to efface themselves in improbable cracks.
I love being surrounded by this sound of summer, sitting in front of the whirring of a fan and its odd mechanical rumble as it turns from one side to the other. But it is also odd, such familiar sounds yet so far from home. The glimmer of turquoise water just outside the window. Every now and then an echo of those everywhere-the-same sounds of families at the sea-side. The expected breezes off the sea non-existent. The skin on my neck itching and unhappy, the lazy slothfulness, the delicious mad consumption of books. The stirrings of a story or two, but no desire to write more than this. A scatter of maps on the low table along with a prized ticket to the Ħal Saflieni hypogeum for tomorrow, procured from the Citadel early this morning — I had all but given up hope of seeing it, with no pre-ordered tickets available. A freezer stuffed with frozen ravioli from the market in Victoria. Mark working at the kitchen table, but I cannot follow his example and work on my article. I just cannot. Fiction or nothing. The mention of a shame-faced crab in the Gozo natural history museum yesterday a new character for Whispering Truth, but no, I am in the mood to lazily think. To blog, the most effortless of writing. The older I get, too, the more afraid I am of forgetting.
The sun streaming through the kitchen window is about to hit me, forcing movement into a cool shower. My legs are finally the colour they have been most of my life, before I moved to England. They are fully mine, but still forced into retreat.
Mine to the right, Mark’s to the left. We’re both a bit obsessive.
Someone broke in last night.
I was trying to get out the door, late for work of course, and saw the door was ajar. I stared at it, wondered if it was possible I had not shut it behind me. No time for recriminations though, I ran down the steps, got to the corner. Remembered I had to remember my work laptop, turned around to get it.
Stared at where it should have been.
Just my pile of shoes there by the door. I had left it by the door to remind myself, but I found myself just staring at the shoes. Blank.
I still didn’t think. Wondered where I might have put it. Turned. Saw also gone the ancient mac that only works to play DVDs. Its screen long dead, it is connected up to a cheap screen so I can watch US dvds, awaiting the day I can afford a television and a universal DVD player. They took all the cords, left the cheap screen. That old mac isn’t worth £5 to anyone but me, but we’ve been through a lot together.
I never move that mac, never touch that tangle of cords. I knew someone had been in there then.
They came in through the window I think. I had left that small window open I think, and it was now closed. They came in while I was sleeping. I saw later, after calling the police, that they had pulled out some of my papers, an old wallet that had nothing in it but my checkbook to a defunct American account. An empty envelope. A lot of risk for so little. Even later, really looking around to make sure everything else was there, I realised they also stole my exercise cord. How am I going to do my rows? That felt like some kind of really stupid straw.
Just a door between them and me asleep.
That’s the real thing.
I am surprised this warm comforting space I call my home didn’t catch them up in a black tornado funnel and spit them back out the window, didn’t rare up biting and clawing to protect me. Or overwhelm them with its love and consciousness embodied in books and political posters. They took that cord, but left the painted Creature From the Black Lagoon box right next to it. Luckily our definitions of value are very different, and everything I love most is still here. I am not much for portable and valuable things. Except laptops.
I feel funny though. Like someone has dropped a stone in water, and I am not sure where the ripples have left me. I had to talk to strangers on the phone. I went in to work because I didn’t even think maybe I shouldn’t, still operating on automatic, then came home. I had to fill out paperwork. I still have to call the manager. I failed to do much beyond a few urgent, very specific email tasks. After I realised they had come through the window I called the police back, thought they should come out after all. I don’t think they’re coming out. I don’t know that I mind. I’m still waiting for a call.
I ordered a box-set of BBC adaptations of Jane Austen. Many years ago, a woman off her head on something and fighting someone in the building or her own demons threw a large stone through my window when I was on my own in LA, and started screaming she wanted to kill me after seeing my shadow. I stared at the rock and the shattered glass all over my bed. Called the police. Waited for them for hours, she was long gone and I wasn’t sad about that either. Then I went to my friend Jennie’s, and watched all of Pride and Prejudice for the first time. I should own a copy for the next time something happens, it is the most soothing of productions.
I am not sure where the ripples have left me.