Like I recall these images were taken Monday afternoon and that I wore white jeans because it was warm and I brought a cardigan because I was going to be out till the evening. But I don’t remember what inspired me to wear black and white.
The advantage, on the other hand, is gaining greater perspective after the lapsing of time, especially when one can look at an event against the context of a succession of days, weeks, months. Heavens, even years!
That’s what happens to the books I buy, which I sign and date. Afterwards, I find myself glancing at the stroke of my name like old scars. Trying to remember which pen I used, why it bled or ran out of ink. Why some signatures had to be repeated over faint marks.
Same goes for the notes that I scribble and set aside, convinced they would be useful for future poems. Or self-reference.
Sometimes I intentionally write them to air them out – I want to see if they would still be valid after the sting or slather has subsided or dried up.
Hence it would make sense to rename this post “Tried, wrung, or unsung”.
Of course, it goes without saying that the posts on these very pages serve the same purpose.
From journal entries to markers for my poetry.
Though they may sound detached and aloof, they are a definite way to plot my personal history.
Once I have the breathing space to write thoroughly, I will return to these entries like a general inspecting sentries.
Oh how I yearn to think and speak with military cadence!
But in the meantime, I have to settle with explaining why wearing mommy jean-ish denim makes sense – as compared to my white Margielas. (It takes me forever to button and then hook the crotch of jeans and pants purchased from the house that the Belgian abandoned.)
Need I point out that combining a tee with a relaxed fit and a cardigan tied around the waist (just in case) is my way of biding my time?
It still surprises me that these ill-fitting jeans don’t look that bad in these pictures.
And that against the light my hair actually looks brown (like my mom's).
Returning to the topic of time difference, there is an advantage to having a boyfriend who works nights.
I can have my silence when he is asleep. Hence I have the time to write this post. (Not that he could already afford to work at the moment.)
I imagine writers with children feel the same way. But what I am actually amazed (but not at all surprised) at, is that after months of being together, we have learned to visit each other in our dreams: I in his sleep, and he on the walking and wide-awake white page.