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Camberwell Green
Jan. 5th, 2012 02:47 amIn Hadestown, when being tempted to travel to the titular city where there's work and food to be had, and also, implicitly, to move beyond want via death, Persephone has the very sympathetic line "I want a nice, soft place to land/I want to lie down forever." Well, who doesn't?
There's a charm to the harsh wind buffeting the kitchen window. It rattles and moans, and I am tucked inside my house, surprisingly adult and safe. There's frisson in the sound. The strange, creaky pleasure of observing the sublime at a safe distance.
People on floors above and below me move in the windows across the span of gardens, perfect cut-paper silhouettes and glass-blurred shadow puppets. When they slip out of the window frame I wonder if I saw them at all. That feels very friendly--it's almost 2am, and I am alone and not alone. The lights are still on.
I finished filling out my 53 page visa application tonight. I need to hunt one more document, though it doesn't really matter if I find it. I need to type a cover letter, and a note of explanation to clarify the time-period encompassed by my bank statements, though these don't really matter much either. They're all just-in-case touches, evidence of my neurotic worrying the visa like a bit of string in my pocket. I'll hunt the last thing tomorrow morning, quickly type and print statements, re-check everything, tick off the document enclosure checklist, slide the pleasingly substantial pile of paper into an envelope, seal and address it, take it to the post office, pay for it, send it, and I will wait, armed with my pre-planned appeals to the few possible objections. And then, I hope, I can be safe in my house. The old row house I wanted since I read Magician's Nephew as a child, and certainly since I first visited the country. With Katy and the cat, and dinner made for tomorrow in advance, and a future, which I expect will arrive presently.
There's a charm to the harsh wind buffeting the kitchen window. It rattles and moans, and I am tucked inside my house, surprisingly adult and safe. There's frisson in the sound. The strange, creaky pleasure of observing the sublime at a safe distance.
People on floors above and below me move in the windows across the span of gardens, perfect cut-paper silhouettes and glass-blurred shadow puppets. When they slip out of the window frame I wonder if I saw them at all. That feels very friendly--it's almost 2am, and I am alone and not alone. The lights are still on.
I finished filling out my 53 page visa application tonight. I need to hunt one more document, though it doesn't really matter if I find it. I need to type a cover letter, and a note of explanation to clarify the time-period encompassed by my bank statements, though these don't really matter much either. They're all just-in-case touches, evidence of my neurotic worrying the visa like a bit of string in my pocket. I'll hunt the last thing tomorrow morning, quickly type and print statements, re-check everything, tick off the document enclosure checklist, slide the pleasingly substantial pile of paper into an envelope, seal and address it, take it to the post office, pay for it, send it, and I will wait, armed with my pre-planned appeals to the few possible objections. And then, I hope, I can be safe in my house. The old row house I wanted since I read Magician's Nephew as a child, and certainly since I first visited the country. With Katy and the cat, and dinner made for tomorrow in advance, and a future, which I expect will arrive presently.
