the harbour is littered with sailboats today, jets hanging above. i walk along the waterfront to church. in the choir, i get hypoxically high; the medieval robes are deliciously swishing and occlusive. to partake in chants that monks have sung for centuries; to be a mere part of history, this pleases my socialist nature.
the artists are the prophets
* 0 * *
after four months, i finally have an actual bed, i have hung my photography, my grandmother and aunt's paintings are on the wall, my other aunt's quilt on my bed.
electric blanket!!!
i am going volcano climbing!!
i am going home for my birthday!!!
today i bought lamb and bok choy from the markets, and tried some chestnuts from the man who had sold some to stephen fry the fortnight before. the harbour is yet enchanted on the way home, all flat water and snowy backdrop, there is a ferry in the background and a sailboarder in this foreground:
six hours later, i get back from latin chants and candles and dread silences in a dark church, with an organist who takes herself very seriously, and down syndrome children who broke the reverence with the occaisional inhuman howl.
it was fantastic.
winter is over and mating season is upon us.
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