Change in the air. Masks coming off, others going on. New understandings of myself, coupled with a slow integration for once. I’m sad about it, in a way, but in the end it’s better for me. Why would I miss things that keep me weak? The basement-child romanticism is fading…leaving behind only the basement-child, but with a clearer view of the piles of ancient detritus needing my attention. It’s likely not possible to clear them all away—can any of us ever do that?—but at least there’ll be some breathing space. I spend far too much time in the attic (attic-child?), wishing the rest of my house didn’t exist. Am I past the point of being able to inhabit the rooms I’ve never seen? I don’t even know if they’re furnished—and with what, if they are.
Waiting for the bus yesterday, an 8-y-o boy declared: “Igor not here. Igor mind him own business.” “You’re lying,” his mother replied. “Sorry, master.” Igor repeated him lines several times before I realised him rehearsing for a play.
I tried to look it up online today, to figure out what play it was—and Google tells me it’s Igor Stravinsky’s birthday. I hope him have a happy birthday, even though him dead.
…and Sophia? Sophia not here. Sophia mind him own business. Sorry, master.