The cheapo kettle starts it's boiling, aftertaste of honey and porridge, outside the growl of an electric drill and beyond the island of Cyprus recently dowsed from last night's rain and hail storm. Today I must continue rinsing out cat shitted upon flower pots, sweep away fresh pink to mud brown leaves and petals that have been strewn by a bougainvillea that hugs the house. It is an odd scent if one stands in between the garden and the back door - floral sweetness mixed with the thick doggy catty smell coming from the living room. Electric drill has got louder and been joined by a distant hammering, in the mirror a green shirted man, behind him palm-tree fronds dither through the window.
A dog flashes into the room, leaps frenziedly, flailing it's front paws about like a deranged conductor on crack. Little dog spirit, maniac of love. I don't mean to make little Natasha jealous, but how fortunate to have hands, and more so to be able to move love through these hands onto another. How extremely odd - that we wake up and go about our day without exploding in rapturous awe at having become what we are - human beings. And furthermore, what we are becoming.
I'd like to note: Cyprus, or at least, this corner of Cyprus in which I reside, seems to be coaxing a further slackening of my perception of time.
So the weekend has appeared and disappeared, now only marginally more real than memories of last night's dream. Within it, two mystic blue planets, that seem, as I look closer, to fall out into themselves and contain more, more to see than I can comprehend. With flecks of gold and yellow brightly glinting away. His eyes were lighter than hers though, simpler, more alert in the moment, not sunk in on themselves. The whites are whiter, yet those touches of red, tiredness - 'you must wait at 5a or 6a for your bus' he says, and so my weekend trip to Nicosia ended. Before it ended I enjoyed bathing in mountain woodland, drinking sweet amber coloured local wine and appreciating the serene Xyliatos reservoir.
