Day one, 25 October 2015
I write this in front of a fire in a house in a slumber. Despite the late of the hour, Ada promenades through the gardens nearby, surveying her kingdom and letting the goose know who’s the new alpha around. I get the feeling she’s going to grow here. She learned from the pack in the park we used to visit on those last mellow summer nights. She was finding her place, discovering where she stood. Now I get the feeling she’ll soon realize that all this is her domain, these her subjects, and she can be kind and mellow and unafraid, at last. She’ll be cool and eventually wise, when the calm, majestic ripeness settles down.
By now I’ve smoked my share, I’ve had my beers and outside the night’s settled in a cold, wet blanket. So it is perfect when Clapton’s version of Autumn Leaves begins to play. This man did Rock, he was one of the greats. He did The Blues, and his incomparable style and touch matured the indomitable sense of yearning. Translate it to Jazz and taste it with all he's learned before to enter a gentle quiescence like no other. And so, as Ada enters back in the house and lies on her bed, I close the door and it echoed in the smallness of that room:
I light another cigarette and wonder. I too should move onto the realms of sleep. Soon I will, but I can’t help staying reminiscing for a moment. Do not go gentle into that good night, I recall appropriately, for I could stay here and reminisce all night. Tomorrow I’ll list what’s needed for the house. I’ll review it with my sister and order it. I’ll write my personal manifesto and finish reformatting Transient before sending it back to my editor. I also need to write two letters, but it should take some time and I want to finish reading Sylvia’s Plath The Bell Jar before I send one of them, so I might have to leave it for later. I’ll just set up the blog first, so I can start posting this diary. Oh, and I’ll need to go get more wood to keep the fires raging.