Here are my phone typed notes from today, as a sample of the kind of journaling I do on the train or while walking (when I really should be watching where my feet are taking me)
I feel like I’m in the movie of my life. A plane overhead. The cotton tuft clouds, heavy grey to light wisp.
“You can take my photo for good memories” he says. I do. “Thank you”.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
French lessons in the morning
I pass by Action Green Common.
the wildness of green that creeps right up to the houses flush with flowers
red brick to purple and cream flowers
what are the names of these silent witnesses. seemingly eternal in their cycle of rebirth
only the roses can I name.
on the train to covent garden I saw my eldest uncle, healthy and young. of course it wasn’t him, but he looked as I imagine my uncle once did, tanned, relaxed, composed, one leg up, his body moved by the train, not rigid against it. “Tio, it is nice to see you. You are a welcome sight,” I want to say, but I don’t. I’m already a stranger in a strange place, stranger for the familiarities. I sing out loud while shopping if the music is good. I smile too widely and too often to be local. I am no restrained/constrained English lady, though all are not that, I know. Just another stereotype to dance with before the dagger comes.
Now, I am at The Poetry Cafe, enjoying the space. From the pictures, it seemed that it would be much larger, but it truly is a cafe in size. At the top, there are words of poetry, interesting notices on the board. There are teas, coffee, cold drinks on offer. It’s just a relaxing place to write. I feel that anyway as I drink from dark mint tea, sweetened with a lump of brown sugar.
I had planned, when I returned to London this time, to do a tea service at Harrod’s. I’d wear my nice leather shoes this time (last time I went in sandals I think) with a lovely and refined spring dress. I’d wear my angled brown hat to present as knowledgeable and coy … I would disrupt what would most likely be again a room of whiteness but for the occasional person of color as a waiter. But Harrod’s tea room is closed for renovations, I read online, so I’ve been taking my tea without the political agenda. A rare luxury to relax into writing.