Back lying, bored, basically. Not sure what to do., it’s just so comfortable here. Easy to dream the day away.. Cats tucked under chin, pushing my lips into soft sweet smelling fur. I am their mum, their caregiver, they lick my face and come to me for comfort. Five feeds a day, sleeping in my bed. Running around, frantic when I walk into the caravan. Come back here little one, calm down, I’m here again and I won’t go away for a while. Come and sleep little one, smell my breath and vibrate with purring. It’s addictive. The caravan is warm and soft, everything padded, cosy, cocooning. My wool lined retreat. Dogs howl in the distance.
And I’m sad somehow. And maybe it’s because I’m spending too much time looking at shit websites (www.lamebook.com?)...the scum that rises to the top of the internet. Distilled essence of the worst of lazy Western humanity.
Or maybe it’s that I’ve lost my traveling mojo. I’m not in cities any more, the heady whirl of life. I’m in the country now. Flat, brown fields. Corn chopped for winter feed. Trudge down one straight yellow road to a copse of struggling trees. Go back home to neighbours I can’t speak to and solitude.
I had the chance to live in a city; small, cheap, cold apartment but in the centre of a nice Bulgarian city. Sitting in cafes, drinking cheap coffee, watching the worn people and the stray dogs. Upstairs from a tattoo parlour. But it cost money you see and I don’t have enough to pay rent. So I came here for free; a cracked and empty tiny house in a cracked and empty village. The shop doesn’t sell vegetables; everyone grows their own. There’s a mosque here and no church. Goats are driven, turkeys forage and tractors rumble past my window. I arrived too late, there’s no garden so I’ve only been able to make rosehip syrup and quince jelly. My bourgeois winter provisions. My house is empty, I sleep on the floor. I made lampshades from twigs and tissue paper to cover the screeching bare lightbulbs. There are holes in the windows and cracks in the walls.
Or maybe it’s the come down from summer. I kayaked almost 3000 kilometres in 7 countries. I fell in love and out again. I was homeless on a boat. I did very stupid things and paid appropriate prices; exile and infamy. How strange that this is who I am; I never thought I would do those things. Great stories for future tall tales but at the time it was shit.
Maybe I can’t find the start. The tail of the knotted ball of story. So I ignore it and look at ecowhore or clickclackgorilla. The glowing lights of other peoples lives further push mine into memory’s darkness.
It’s a fitful storm lamp, my story, red chipped paint and delicate yellow glass. A curled wire lever raises the shade to light it and it throws a small comforting glow just a short little distance. The problem is, it runs on lamp oil you see; and that’s difficult to find in rural Bulgaria.