Grieving and death are tiring. I have been having so many dreams of M, in which he speaks. I also have dreams in which his Haitian wife, M, also speaks. But they are always separate dreams, and the two of them are not ever in the same dream. Just as now, they can never be together as they used to be, the way so many of my memories of them have them.
The sky has turned sullen again. A damp, chilly mass of air has moved in on the back of damp, chilly wind. The rain that shall wash us here all weekend begins after midnight. Every chronic ache and pain from the nerves pinched and rubbed raw by the damaged vertebrae are screaming right now.
El V's having yet more music tonight, way uptown. This is his best way of coping.
Me, well, first I've wrapped myself in lovely Shetland wool. Then I donned my amethyst rings, earrings and pendant.
I have poured a glass of a wine the shade that my imagination presumes is the same purple Homer meant by "wine-dark sea."
One of the wine store caballeros gave me some sprays of lilacs from his courtyard. His bushes are overwhelming all the space, so he was giving out branches he's pruned out to regulars whom he thinks will like them.
Thus, I am prepared to watch the first episode of netflix's production of Anne of Green Gables, "Anne With An E," which went up for streaming today.
Somehow, I feel Anne would enter into this with entire sympathy -- another word Anne with an e employed enthusiastically.
This version of Anne spends a bit more time on the dark side of her life before coming to Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert, it is said, than the sunlit days. This shall suit very well, me thinks.