Frozen Wanderer: Week 2

Inebriation

DAY 9

I have so many ideas endlessly running through my day, but since I don’t write them down at the minute, I don’t feel the need to throw them on paper when the night comes. I would have so much thing to meditate but not tonight!

Then, I throw everything without filter nor poetry.

There is this idea this quarantine gets me closer to my family, reminds me of a certain idea of my childhood in order to heal some clumsy memories. There is this April discomfort. Even if it is only March. There is this mirror of myself when I have been so far from my own image for eight months. This physical malaise that I don’t bear anymore. There are thousands of dreams I feel unable to make real in this moment, which terrorises me.

There is this minute now during which I didn’t listen to my need, that I literally fled away from. I filled up my authorization like a banshee and I went for a run. Vainly attempting to fly. Ten minutes later, I could have died on the pavement. For a week, my only activity has been to walk from the bedroom to the kitchen and then from the kitchen to the bathroom, and from time to time I have gone downstairs to the restroom. Like anybody, the closest map to my next holidays strangely looks like my mum’s house’s construction plan. It’s been my first day out since March 17th. My muscles have got numb and were not ready for such a slap. Then, the tearing in my belly awakes. I had to stop my impetus under spring blossoms. I walked for an hour though. I let my fingers run on some school fences and I thought about disease, about masks, about my hands probably carrying the virus now.

There is this breath taken away. There are those ghosts who always come back like an army, trapped in my stillness. There are my heavy eyelids in this minute. There is this confinement with no solitude.

There are all my writing rules, the ones that lock me down. There is the woman cycle. There are phones and other medias taking over me. There is dehydration. In my body. In my soul. I don’t drink enough water. But, every night makes me water for alcohol. Second quarantined week theme: GETTING DRUNK!

There are bad omens and good vides. There are my traveling revelations vanishing away. There is this now, maybe just passing by, but more likely to be my true mood.

Beside, there is the moon changing her dress, her shape. Tonight she is disappearing. She brings me back to her last fullness and mine. I was in full light, cheerful and happy. Since then, the world has changed its face in a jiffy. My own world has taken dark turns making me happy, bright corners making me sad. I only need the slightest flipper for my ocean to make rings in water.

And there is, despite everything, despite the darkness in my heart for this 9th day of quarantine, this occasion to explore my own soul.

DAY 10

This morning, my wake up snows big flakes. It is absolutely unexpected after yesterday sun. France didn’t know any winter and it is snowing in the middle of spring! The world is getting crazy…

I am moved by the enthusiasm of Sara, my 21 year-old sister. She is jumping everywhere, takes pictures of every flakes, would like to awake our sister that is never up before 1 p.m, runs through the stairs to warn my mum and repeats every 3 seconds with stars in her eyes: “Oh, snow is so beautiful!” Since the beginning of this quarantine, I recognize in Sara the playful little girl she used to be. I can find the soft and naive joy she used to sparkle, making her such a high pitch moving kid. She was always so easy to make happy. She could sink for hours, with a serious patience, in little things bringing her joy. The grown up version of her has kept this patience but it’s been such long time since I have seen this light in her. Something has changed the time I was gone and Sara is not the same, she is magnificent.

In front of Sara’s childish enthusiasm, only my melancholia glitters though. Snow represents my past and ended elsewhere. This other time, this other me. I think about Alaska et my own marvel in front of first snows. “Is it the first time you see snow ? – No! But it is so rare at home, it always feels like magic…” Not today! Today, it feeds my blues. Today, it cuts my wings. Today, I think about my first Alaskan snow and all the one that followed, bringing adventures, opportunities, changes even though nature was freezing in ice. It was the minute just before the metamorphosis. Today, finally butterfly, chrysalis locked onto my wings and I can’t truly start my new life.
Today, I stop writing, working, stepping back, going on; I escape in spacial adventures through my zodiac novel, hoping my creative flames will light up soon.

DAY 11

Today is Friday, it is the day I fly away. My mum has acquaintances owning a vineyard and I am giving a hand in the vines. I have impatience in my feet, I can hear the call of the sea even it I don’t really acknowledge it. Then, this version of workaway at home is a godsend. Except I am payed with bottles of wine at the end of the day, far from me to complain!

It is such a nice piece of fresh air. I gaze at the nature dressing with spring little by little. I love this way to travel at home. My body remembers the familiar movement of my wanders and it triggers my imagination, even if I don’t dream too far. My flame rises again, my mind blows with all what I will write at home, like so often when my body works in wilderness. It feels like Vancouver Island cidrery, except lighted by Lola’s facetious laughs today…

Unfortunately, barbecue and rosé at noon get me drunk before time and stop my creative mood. I get my last drink at 3 p.m, big mistake! I should never have stopped to drink. Because yes, for afternoon hang over, the mistake is not to start but to stop. You then feel like a hammer on your fatigue, and then comes depression. All my written dreams shall await, they won’t be transcended today. Blood filters my alcohol and erases my joy.

When my hang over goes away, I cherish precious moments that probably only happens because we are locked down. My mother tells us about her youth. Her both random and cheerful adventures. She shares a piece of her we don’t know, and I know my sisters are drinking her words. Them for whom the young lady she was is mystery. Me for whom the young lady she was, was my mum. I have the privilege of the oldest kid, to be nine years ahead and to know a bit more. I remember some tiny parts, distorted by my child memories, of those people my sisters never met, of the country house mys sisters never levied in, of my mum’s endless absences, of the unbreakable admiration I had for her. Of this young woman so free I was jealous of freedom taking her from me too often. This time, I have never heard about the story of those time she is telling us. My sisters grasp to hers words like a precious secret, so eager to draw my mum’s mysterious contours.

I cherish precious moments that probably only happens because we are locked down… My sisters play hair dressing. Mostly Lola! Like always… She did so many of hair experiences during her childhood. When she was four, we found her with a little puff: “What? It was bothering me to draw!” Of course, it was not bothering anymore. Today, Lola is getting bored, quarantine is drying out her blighting light. She has been champing at the bit for two days: “Today, you cut me a bang, or I will do it myself!” We know she is capable of this. She is 19, but she is not wiser. Or more exactly, she is not more reasonable. Because Lola has always surprised us with a stunning wisdom for her age; when she was 6, she told us she was the daughter of the Moon, and she chose us as her Earth family. I am telling you, Lola is wise, she has an old soul, but her heart is way too much playful to be serious. Life is a giant playground for her exponential joy.
For now, she needs an apprentice hair dresser and I take very good care not to volunteer… Last time I touched a pair of scissors, I had told her: “You don’t need to go to the hairdresser only for the tips, I will do it. It is easy peasy!” She ended up with a beautiful hair diagonal in her back… Sara is taking care of it and she is way better. She says with a smile: “If I don’t make with my chiropractic studies, at least, I have a future in hairdressing!” Lola can wear a trash bag, she would still be gorgeous anyway!