ryman

Some Notes on Strangeness:

That time of year again, the creeping inescapable sense of everything changing and shifting; each morning waking up and standing at the usual bus stop and shivering a little more. The days are still warm, glorious even, but the mornings and nights are cold, a little bitter even. I'm counting the days until I need to go scarf shopping, the prospect of which is making me inexplicably happy. I'm that kind of guy.


and all that's okay. Change is inevitable, I've figured that much out by now, even though I'm always struggling to realise it at the time. Just keep telling myself that just because something feels different or weird, doesn't mean it's wrong. I just wish I could stop fucking up in all these different ways and feel comfortable for a second or two.
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I'm always thinking about home, the place I come from. Which is really weird because every time I go back, I realise why I left and stayed away... But it's aquiring this nostalgic sheen that's so far removed reality of the place. It's always autumn there, picking blackberries with my mum or walking along beaches and drawing with my dad. And you don't know how much I'm missing that right now (maybe you do though...)

I met this girl last year, and she was beautiful and strange and funny and things happened which maybe shouldn't have. I haven't spoken to her in months, which I guess is okay, but I catch myself thinking about her at the most random moments. Missing her a little?
That's something else altogether.

But she introduced me to Raymond Carver, who I've been reading for months now and who catches on all these little points of strangeness I've been talking about: Each year, in the early autumn, thousands and thousands of geese fly to this place I'm from and overwinter there. Each night they fly back from their feeding fields, and the sight of these skeins in this amazing, lowering amber and midnight-blue sky, is something that I know I'll have in the back of my head until whenever. The sound of it too; a weird, barying melancholic yelp that goes on all night.... shivers down my back.
Raymond Carver wrote a poem called "Prosser", and that says it all. It's about home and forgetting, and about remembering and wondering what could have been. All that wondering.
It's beautiful, you need to read it.

hope you're well
x r


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Edited to say....
I'm covered in bruises due to an accident, drunkenly ballroom dancing with a lovely south African girl last night.
It was quite a sight to behold, apparently.
eek.