a quiet kind of beauty
My day began with dark and rain. As the light progressed, slow as a piece of old French furniture music, I became sadder and sadder. I love these early hours. I never thought I would, I am a night-hearted woman and even until last week I was determined to dislike the morning. But I've come to know its intimacy, privacy, gentleness, poetry. I appreciate it so much now, but in a rather melancholic way, for its beauty is ephemeral, and I know what comes next is the bright day.
It's not that I don't want the sun. It's that the sunlit world is often exhausting. The clamour of people and their traffic. The requirements. The prose. I would like to think that, if all the day was grey and green like its first hour, people would go about more softly, and converse in old quotes and wayward translations from fragmented antique books, be more thoughtful and caring. But that's entirely wrong. People would very quickly spoil my sense of beauty. Because of course there are thousands of ideas about beauty, and almost all of them more vivacious than mine.
etre dans la lune
trans. be in the moon
head in the clouds, in a world of your own
someone recently suggested that the aesthetic changes I make here are seasonal ... perhaps, but not the regular four. my season at the moment is lingering cold, and rain, and frangible skies that are strangely illuminated at night to the north, but bruised and sombre southward. I've nothing in me these days that resonates with knitting the wind, but won't move to a new url for practical reasons.