Day 190

Invitation to a meadow.

I ran 2.5km today, getting red-faced and exhausted very quickly - this heatwave is going on and on.  I was going so slowly I could almost have walked next to myself.

I ran just over two km yesterday but forgot to write about it.  It was still very hot, and as I ran along the new path on Refrigerator Corner (which came about from my plodding feet due to the ploughing, which took away my old path), I did little leaps and twirls, avoiding the new fronds of a leggy Queen Anne's Lace plant, several baby Milkweed, and some pure white funnel-shaped bindweed flowers, looking up from the parched ground like perfect stars in a dark sky.  As I ran a kind wind whispered through the thirsty leaves of the trees, telling them of rain to come, just two more sleeps and water will pour down the furrowed bark, splatter on the breathless grass, tumble down the stony hill.

Today I attempted a self-portrait (which I haven't done for a long time) with pastels and charcoal, sort of pleased with it, but struggled with the eyes especially. It is hard to make yourself old.  I want to see the young in me, it is a shock each day to watch yourself becoming an old lady like your mother.

In Campagny (continued)
Luca stumbled, could not catch himself, and fell.   Beeze flapping into the air in an instant, as birds can.  He wished for wings as he lay there a minute, then sat up, gathering himself together, checking his many pockets for loss.  Beeze flew to a perch nearby and informed him that his head was bleeding, "a lot of blood.  I am not happy about blood."  And indeed yes, he felt a little odd, felt the trickling liquid down his neck.  He lay down again and watched at the green parrot spread her wings and, without offering him any explanation, flew off.

After a few minutes of staring up at the amazing canopy of shifting green light and shadow, Luca thought how he had been walking for a long long time.  He realised that he was very tired and allowed himself to drift off to sleep.

In his dream he was home with his mother.  Her white hair bright-lit on one side from the three scintillants, their moving images illuminating the page she was studying.  It was a very old book that she was looking at, falling apart really, with exquisite paintings of insects from long ago.  (He had copied several of them while learning his illustrative art, although he had never managed the rich jewel-like colours of the originals.)  He wasn't exactly there with her, he was kind of floating above her, like the omnipresent narrator of an old flick, some of which could still be found on the scintillants.  He watched as a man came striding into the room and sat down opposite her.  The man was gesticulating as he spoke, but his mother remained calm.  He knew what the man was saying, even though for some reason he couldn't hear him.  Then there were loud flashes outside, and both people turned anxious faces to the doorway.   He woke himself up, glad to be here in the dappled light of a million trees, but sad, so sad.  Weren't dreams supposed to take you away from your real life?  

His head hurt but the bleeding had stopped.  He sat up gingerly.  Where was Beeze?  He was lost in the forest without a guide, lost and injured.  And hungry.