Again that delicious luxury of not quite knowing what to do with your day.
Ah, that this holiday and my money could last forever!
The challenge, not to slide into old conceptual habits because I have time on my hands.
in the benjo, wellingborough market square
Half way to Wellingborough on the bus I realised I'd forgotten my wallet. And I have no money on me at all. Rode all the way into town anyway, smiling at my stupidity. Look on it as a long walk home voluntarily taken.
Plus I really needed to piss.
Circuitous route back through Croyland Park, trying not to step on the daisies and buttercups.
An insect I don't know the name of crawling through the tangle of long hairs on my leg. Antennae twitching madly as it hunkers down against a gust of strong wind.
The swimming baths are gone! Nothing at all remains of the building except in my mind, where it is as real and loud and echoing and chlorine-smelling as it was before.
In real unreality (as Kerouac called it),only the car park is still there, exactly as it used to be.
I am 12 and 43 at the same time standing in this spot looking at a vanished building and remembering all the times I went there.
The past and the present both exist in the same space, simultaneously.
Gulls wheeling in the air--smaller birds too (I don't know their names either!)--it's like a metaphorical illustration of the dream we're walking through from day to day.
And the sky is huge above the park. The houses on the edge of the park, and the spire of Wilby Church in the distance, look so small as those big grey-white clouds roll overhead (followed by patches of blue).
*When I think about posting this on the internet I stop seeing clearly, my mind shuts down and my writing deteriorates!*