Virus thing is hanging around and I almost have the sense that it is trying to re-boot. I am being, perforce, patient. Goodness knows if I have not learned that much in twenty five years then it would be a pretty poor show and it does not come as a surprise to find myself almost completely grounded with most reading and writing privileges denied on account of neurological disturbance. Blogging, it seems, is ok - in small doses. Apart from the pre-Valentine lunch on Sunday, I have not left Signs Cottage for a week and a half. I have cancelled two choir practices, two writing sessions, dentist, book group, weekend visitors, Brighton, a poetry reading. It suddenly feels as though my life - for a PWME, at any rate - has become too busy, though I am careful to have spaces in between things. For now, though, everything has stopped. If there were an old-fashioned Grandfather clock in the house I could listen to its tick and tock. Times when one watches the moments, listens to them as they pass: tick, and tick, and tick.
The solitude imposed by these times, in spite of the restrictions, is by now a familiar guest - a friend, almost. I would prefer it to come alone and unencumbered, without the attendant symptoms.
A present came through the post today: a white key in a black box. It looks beautiful and potent, talismanic. To unlock the space between tick and tock, slip through. Find the point of exit, of entry.