I've been playing with paper and fire.
The two met momentarily, just a little nudge; I didn't burn the house down.
Although I have been thinking I might, since it seems to be falling to pieces anyway.
Nevertheless, I'm in here, with my bits of paper and troughs of cold cheap coffee, the wood on the fire smells of the bush at Kare Kare where we camped as kids (and adults).
Last night, my fingertips burned on oven-baked paper.
Tonight, I washed them of soot.
The olde green press is pressing, I want to prematurely take what is in it out, to begin. But I have to wait.
Time will pass, or I will pass time.
And then we will meet again.
We will both be different.
There is a little pile of supplies by the fire ready for tomorrow's bind. Two awls of different widths, a bone folder, a couple of needles jabbed into the couch armrest, some Irish linen thread, a pair of scissors, a tiny beeswax block, and an old book about Woodstock on which to lean. My slippers are under the couch somewhere, having kicked them off to warm my toes by the flames.
I blew the embers on the fire and upon looking in the mirror later on, found tufts of ash on my cheeks.
This morning I finished one book, before I ventured out in the rain in my big coat. I began another by the same author, a few hours later. This I will bury my mind in, very soon.
Before I go, a photo for you from my archive. Next time, I'll tell you the story.