I Was Alone Here--For a Minute

Even after more than 3 years neither Durwood nor I are really accustomed to him being home all the time. I crave solitude at home and he craves being out in his "territory." On the first Saturday of the month he picks up an even older coot and they meet 2000 census friends for breakfast in a cafeteria across town. At first he went alone, stayed longer talking, and then wandered through a store or two to give me a break. Now that he's picking up the so-old-he's-no-longer-driving guy who doesn't like to stay long or go anywhere else, he's home within an hour and a half. I try to make every minute count by not turning on TV or music or my iPod or calling anyone and it is great, but I want more. Maybe it's time we play "Durwood's out of town" again. That's when he goes to a local motel for a night or two for peace and eating out (no cooking) and I've got the house and my own space for those nights too. It's cheap sanity for both of us. I realized this morning that Lala was very wise when she advised me to hold off until February to implement some of my year-goals. It's a much more physical time for me, the mental things (journaling, bigger writing) aren't going well, so I'm going to table them for this month, tackle some of the physical goals and once I have them in place and ticking along nicely I can slowly add in the things I have to think about. Good advice, Lala. That decision make me feel a teensy bit less crazed.

January 6--Caravaggio, The Musicians. They look like boys but think of themselves as men. The musicians hired to play during supper sit in the alcove turning up and squabbling about which piece to lead off with. Those baby faces make them look like they're not old enough to be awake this late but as one who has had her bottom pinched by the lute player, Mario, I know that they are. Or near enough. They are coarse little things even though they have the look of angels. The smallest, Piccolo the flute player, talks as if he were a dock worker and Luca, who plays the violin so sweetly it makes you cry, makes suggestions of things I don't think a body can do. Rio the singer has the high voice of an angel but looks like a devil with his peaked black brows and sensuous lips. He calls me Madame Imalia as he should but his voice seems to caress my skin as he speaks.

What happens next? I haven't got a clue but I wonder how I can put Imalia and the musicians in proximity over and over. Intrigue? Spying? Sex? Hmm, maybe I'll think on it while I'm clearing out under the basement stairs later. Think sunshine on this dull day.
--Barbara