The experience of summer had, too, evolved; some things remained the same and perhaps always would, that feeling of slowness in the day, one flowing from the other, nothing of terrible urgency, some days undistinguished from the last, others marked by some delightful experience. She went to the church organ performance every Wednesday, hoping that this would be the week they played Bach or Buxtehude or Gabrieli or something else glorious and uplifting, something that lifted her out of the week, out of the month, out of time altogether. It wasn't unpleasant, although sometimes the seeming lack of activity became wearisome. She supposed then she should find something that did feel like a real exertion of energy. But today, today she rested, today she did very little for the sake of doing very little. The week previous, she had danced every day, a few days of dancing 12 hours, give or take however long of breaks they had for lunch and dinner. Today her head hurt a bit, too.
Her heart a bit, too. They had driven in the car last night, the very same trip they had once taken before she realized only after he had dropped her and her luggage off. Perhaps he too had remembered and that was why he had talked for almost the entire trip, talking at her not even to her. Of course, what he had said was of interest to her - it generally was - but it hadn't felt like he had really wanted to speak with her, but was speaking his mind to avoid the silence that otherwise would have reigned and recalled their previous instances in this car. Yes, the last time they had driven together it had been in fervent love, in aching longing for one another, consuming, overwhelming aching.
There was a pain in her upper left head, a driving pain increasing considerably in the last ten minutes. She had had an entire list of things she had wanted to do, but she had managed to accomplish only the things she had left off the list. To put life in order, to live orderly suddenly seemed such a daunting task, one that took all of life's energy. It seemed that were one to live as orderly as she dreamed of, they would do nothing but spend their time ordering. Was that how life was meant to be lived? This question of how to live haunted her, had haunted her for so very long now. She remembered even in her earlier adolescence having this thought screaming at her. And how she hated those screams. She hated the brashness, the harshness of those sounds. Oh what to do with the day. Writing as an activity seemed to be a good idea but it was only causing the pain in her head to increase. She wondered how other people wrote.
Her heart a bit, too. They had driven in the car last night, the very same trip they had once taken before she realized only after he had dropped her and her luggage off. Perhaps he too had remembered and that was why he had talked for almost the entire trip, talking at her not even to her. Of course, what he had said was of interest to her - it generally was - but it hadn't felt like he had really wanted to speak with her, but was speaking his mind to avoid the silence that otherwise would have reigned and recalled their previous instances in this car. Yes, the last time they had driven together it had been in fervent love, in aching longing for one another, consuming, overwhelming aching.
There was a pain in her upper left head, a driving pain increasing considerably in the last ten minutes. She had had an entire list of things she had wanted to do, but she had managed to accomplish only the things she had left off the list. To put life in order, to live orderly suddenly seemed such a daunting task, one that took all of life's energy. It seemed that were one to live as orderly as she dreamed of, they would do nothing but spend their time ordering. Was that how life was meant to be lived? This question of how to live haunted her, had haunted her for so very long now. She remembered even in her earlier adolescence having this thought screaming at her. And how she hated those screams. She hated the brashness, the harshness of those sounds. Oh what to do with the day. Writing as an activity seemed to be a good idea but it was only causing the pain in her head to increase. She wondered how other people wrote.
