I am a devotee of bridges. And letters. I raced home through the yellow sunshiny streets dreaming about the curve of R. The two ball shapes curling under and over the tips. The wide sweep of purple across the page already thick with layers of paper. outlined in red! At stoplights I lunged forward in my seat, hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel. Must get home. Must add letter to book. must must must.
There now. All better.
From Angle of Repose which I am STILL reading:
Good night, good night. I feel smothered, lonely, eager, I don't know what. The future is as dark as the corridor out there, but might be every bit as charming once light comes on it.
I love reading words in a book that express what I feel or have felt, but didn't have the words to say. I learned recently that the correspondences in the book are all actual letters written by a woman who moved west in the 19th century. The descriptions of the west are so startling, so achingly beautiful. I've bent the pages back, folded and unfolded the book so many times it literally has fallen apart. If someone were here with me I would say, "Have pages 3-114 . Let me know when you need the next section." But of course, someone is not here and the cat posse hasn't learned to read. Yet.
It's just me. Finishing up my book, dreaming about the West, painting my letters, scribbling away in my journal, and making blind contour drawings in bed (thanks to Carla).