It’s grey here. And damp. Already fed the kitties, had some yogurt, I know coffee is soon to follow — then looking at another day of painting. The repetitive nature of my life here is a tad underwhelming. These murky mornings tend to make the day drag until something happens. Of course, nothing happens here. Life within the walls of my former home weigh me down with memories, current needs, and the misfired past desires of containment. Now, I just want out.
My mood was not helped when I watched an FSU feature on TV yesterday. It was about International Programs and Florence was featured heavily. My former colleagues and friends were interviewed. I even appeared in the background lit by the light from my library’s windows. It was like looking at pictures after a break-up. Everything about Florence came rushing back to me. The piazzas, the food, especially the tiny coffee cups of espresso goodness. It’s maybe worse than a break up, because it is still there, waiting. It will not ignore me when I walk by or refuse to call or write. Florence would never divulge intimacies to its neighbors in an attempt at shaming me. And I doubt seriously it would call me in the middle of the night, only to hang-up. It is the perfect love—reflective and contingent on my love of it. And when it ends, as all love does, it will remain a point in my life that is positive and without regret.
Luckily, I have over two weeks of solid travel coming up. That will certainly get the blood flowing and the life-force coursing. And in that two weeks I’ll get to be introduced to a city I suspect I may have a fling with—a slight diversion from pining—New York City. Hmmm, now the possibilities are stirring me into awareness. In the meantime, painting, painting, painting.