Orange Sundays

An old post…one that I didn’t deem ‘good enough’ for publishing. But now I think the rawest, deepest expressions are probably the best. And anonymous or not, this blog has been about my personal expression. So here it it…the year that was. I’m glad to get it off my mind. Thank you, all of you, for reading.

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If Fridays are a turquoise tango, Sundays seem to be an orange orchestra. No, a solo piece actually. Sundays, for a long time, have been ‘me’ days. first, out of a lack of options, then exhaustion and now with a sense of anticipation.

I wander down bookshelves that I’ve only been glazing over these last few weeks and moving away, hurriedly, from. It seems almost wrong to be here alone, like something vacant. And the environment matches my mood. What was earlier opulence, seems to have run into decadent indifference. Books lie piled on floors, some with their skeletons ripped. They’re all in the wrong racks. I suppress a grimace. Ah well, things shift, staff changes. My favorite bookshop is my haven of clean, tidy ideas no more. And I miss Precious.

Had dinner with a friend. He trekked across the city after a busy day, a busy week at work, simply because I called and asked if he’d like to meet. He thought I needed to talk. How touching.

I asked for my favorite drink, now christened a Bradtini while he settled on a chocolate shake. I was most amused to find that the waiter put the milkshake down before me and the drink before him. Assumption is the source of some mirth for me and potential bombshells for others. My sense of humour is rather volatile.

After I talked of the events of the past year, my friend-quiet listener, said

You shouldn’t have to face this. She said so too.

I was touched, once more. How very young they seemed to me then, she and he! How agonizing my disappointment and frustration must have seemed to them! In parallel it occurred to me that they grieve for my suffering, that I don’t experience any more. That seemed to fantastic to imagine …as it did several years aago when my older, wiser friends said such things. It prompted him to ask,

But eventually….you too want stability, don’t you?

Out of the mouth of babes….

As we approached my door, he asked,

Are you happy? On a scale of one to ten, not just this moment but in life, how happy is IdeaSmith?

And I didn’t have to think real hard or lie to say,

Eight. Idea is quite happy.

Since he didn’t ask and the hour was late, I didn’t bother to elaborate.

Idea is happy because she can finally bend over and touch her toes after two years of yoga.
Idea is happy that there are people who ask if she is.
Idea misses Precious and is just glad to have someone to miss.
Idea is happy that the rains are far away and that the sun is out.
Idea is happy to have finally found a drink that she likes the taste of…and the high too.
Idea is very happy to be 28 with a 24-year-old friend who cares to listen to the melancholy in her voice.
Idea is so happy to have this blog that has become her dearest friend, her mirror of Erised.

And Idea is really happy that the tapestry of turquoise is shot with golden-orange threaded Sundays.