Silence, space and Mrs.Dalloway

It would have been a perfect afternoon to focus on writing. There's nobody around, it's a grey day and the space -usually filled with books, people, sounds- it is nearly empty. Instead, I constantly check my emails, speak on the phone, think about how I relaxed I am. Yes, I am "relaxing as it is", as my screen saver's statement says. I'm too relaxed, that's the problem... procastinating decisions and work commitments. I will be fine, I'll go through all I have to do in the next days. 

It's quiet to the extent I can hear my own thoughts. Ideas make noise, a soft pillow-like noise when one turns during sleep. It crossed my mind to call my shadow but I wasn't really serious about it. I could call her today, I thought after my vegan lunch, but I wasn't excited nor concerned. The idea fell flat while I was walking back to my office. Should I call her? I don't know, perhaps I could break the ice first, pick up the phone and ask how it is doing with her baby girl. Apparently she wrote on facebook that she is in love with her. I bet, she seems so cute!

My mum doesn't understand why I feel the urge to solve this emotional knot. She doesn't even think about all this as something that needs to be addressed as she knows how L. is and is much more skeptical than me. She doesn't think people could change, when friendship is over it's really over and that's it. However, she told me that if it's crucial to me, I should call/meet her. I still don't know what to do. By the way, after the baby was delivered I haven't dreamt of her anymore. I did have strange dreams though, I wish I had written them down.

I finished The Secret Life of Bees which I really enjoyed and just started The Hours. The movie based on the novel is simply amazing, I've seen it 4-5 times (perhaps even more). The book is written in a wonderful, marvelous, perfect English and the characters -three women who live in different times linked by Woolf's Mrs Dalloway- are so unique I don't even dare to describe. 

As Clarissa steps down from the vestibule her shoe make gritty contact with the red-brown, mica-studded stone of the first stair. She is fifty-two now, just fifty-two, and almost unnaturally good health. She feels every bit as good as she did that day in Wellfleet, at the age of eighteen, stepping out through the glass doors into a day very much like this one, fresh and almost painfully clear, rampant with growth. There were dragonflies zigzagging among the cattails. There was a grassy smell sharpened by pine sap. Richard came out behind her, put an hand on her shoulder, and said, "Why, hello, Mrs. Dalloway". (p.10)