Immobile

I am still in that hurricane eye. I certainly feel the wind, also hear the rumor of agitation; my daily life is far from being calm, bills arrive, urgent requests from customers arise, choir and singing rehearsals, exercises, dinners, lunches, mornings, friends to meet, to see for the first time, others who now seem to climb a little further away, the mother who had knee surgery who complains that it is more painful than childbirth, the suffocated unrest in Syria, the growing turmoil in Tunisia, the legislative farce in France around marriage, the deaths in the Solomon Islands, the snow in Boston, the confused Canadians, the visit to espresso machine sites just because mine is starting to make me really sweat. Little bourgeois that I am, little frustrated in debt.

And then silence for an afternoon, before coming back to my office to create a poster for a choir. Today, the same circus, a magazine of librarians to be set up, the same hours, the same way of going.

This morning, the silence is similar to yesterday’s, although I can also hear the boiling of the humidifier, the irregular, and lazy car traffic as it should be for a Sunday morning. I also understand the disorder of my desk, a faithful mirror of what is cluttering my mind.

The rest is just literature written with a worried and obstinate hand.