life in a french press, conclusion: a very good brew

I took some time off from the whole journalling thing for these last couple of months, and even now, I'm not sure that I'm really going to start back up again.
There's a big writerly type project suckering onto my inspiration right now, and I don't think it will be ready to give me back until the end of the summer. At least that's how I see it.
In the interim, however, there are things to talk about. There always are, right?
I got a year older out of the way. Interesting, how one can feel simultaneously so young and so old. I feel a little like something caught in a drain, the water all rushing past me and yet I'm somehow suspended free of the vacuum, neither in the bathtub, or down in the pipes yet. I'm just here, floating, feeling everything, and going nowhere, nowhere at all.

Still.
Even this is a place.
Even the inbetween is a space one can inhabit.
And I claim it.
I call it bed and make it home and spread my marmalade on toast here and spill my laundry on the floor and set aside some time to write. All of this, while the water rushes by, and its source is endless, or seems so at least, and waiting is less waiting as it is seizing the moment, because the water runs out sometime, and then the plummet is fast and irrevocable.

The wedding date is set.
The location is being negotiated. I'm scrounging up the people I can think of who really should be there, because I can't possibly have everyone I want there, or else somebody better start planning this with a pocketbook a few sizes larger than mine.
Still...there will be ocean and cake and music and dancing and love.
And really, what more could anyone ask for?

Spring has leapt out of the shadows like a regal, if uncontrollable, lion and every blade of grass feels the lust in the air. The moon is fattening herself up for a real bout of madness, and even the ground swells a bit when you step on it, like a breast filling with air.
I feel alive, truly, sensually, messily alive.
The last few weeks have been such a blitz of carpe diem.
That's something new england (and a couple of other places) holds in its populus that really defines us. We know the dark, sodden dread of the soul crushing winter. That feeling, in the back of our throats, even in the thickest, hottest, sweetest summer night, that it is only this rich before the lean, haggard months of cold.
This idea of an expiration date on all things joyous and lovely and wild and bursty and exploding with color, makes us a volitile little crew, and we sieze every opportunity to revel in summeriness.
And I must admit that I am really a stickler for revelling.
I lack nothing if I lack indulgence!
Since the mercury tipped, I've been hurling myself in the ocean at a moment's notice, curling up under the stars on blankets and listening to giants play the accordian. I drink sangria from a chipped mug and sniff the tulips in the bank parking lot across from the bakery, admire the sky and the emerald pallor of the grass. I have danced and walked and frolicked on the beach and burned my over-eager skin worse than I have in years, leaving fluffy trails of white, singed skin all over the apartment in the ensuing weeks.
There has been cass love, lucretia love, hugging friends love, firetruck love, gay date love, nihilistic love, book love, writerly love, cake love, music love, drink love, and love seeping out of places I never knew to look for it before.
During a long-overdue brunch date with B yesterday, I wore a long purple skirt, one that swirls in the breeze and no matter what shape I'm in makes me glad I have hips. We sat in a booth and I drizzled ketchup all over my eggs (much to b's disgust) and we kept a running commentary about the people walking by the window.
A moment passed when the waitress with the flower behind her ear whisked our plates away and refilled our glasses for the last time, when B reached across the table and took my hand, and we just sat there. It was short, and it was silent, and the waitress brought the check, and we paid and strolled out onto the cobblestones, but I could feel at ease in that moment at the table.
I could feel the warmth of B's hand, and the comfort with which we can touch each other, the happy contentment of the breakfast tummy, the quiet realization that you have come a long way with a person, and you are so, so glad to be there with them for the remainder of the journey.