When I was packing this morning I found an enormous cockroach in my luggage. I squelched a scream and jumped to the other side of the room, my heart pounding. But I had to deal with it myself of course, there was no one else. So I moved in and gingerly took out each piece of clothing, one at a time, shaking it out on the floor before putting it back on the bed to refold. I finally got down to the bottom and isolated the creature, then shut my eyes and flipped the bag over. Knowing I’d have to see the thing leave to believe it, I kicked the suitcase around the room watching until the bug scrambled away, then I quickly repacked everything and zipped the case up tight. I felt both victorious and shaky.
A ten-hour train trip took me through wonderful country south to Grenada, almost at Spain’s southernmost coast. Citrus groves and cotton fields. I haven't brought much stuff with me on this trip but it is wonderful having my Walkman; music illuminates scenery dramatically. Sometimes the songs make me cry. I think of the time you and I wasted not telling each other our true feelings earlier.
I have taken to reading poetry. It seems to say so much of what I’m feeling in such concise words. Or else I look in it for hidden meanings, things written only to me. Ridiculous I know. I’m sure everyone does that. In an English collection I found at a second hand store, someone had made pencilled additions in the margins and I am more intrigued by the additions than the collection. It seems the previous owner felt much as I do, underlining some couplets that are particularly resonant:
But there is that within me which shall tire
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire. (Byron)
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea. (Thomas)
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