Dear Nodding,
I have only the most everyday things on my mind, so I sit down to this letter as I might sit down to a diary—“rained on and off, had a pickle”—only hoping you’ll forgive the trivialities.
Went to the food pantry this morning with M., who came along on her day off. As they didn’t get a regular shipment in today, we mostly tidied up and sorted through piles of donated bags. A quiet morning. Went home and had a cookie.
For a good few weeks the air has been sluggish at home, but a nice breeze is slipping in through the windows today, and all at once the building has awoken. You can hear it moving about like an upstairs neighbor—a shudder in the roof, the light rattling of a window, a knock in the bathroom exhaust.
I’m dressed in light blue today, and I’ve turned dead against it. Somehow it makes me feel washed out. Lately I’ve been getting pickier about colors and eager to indulge in a few, whereas in the past I shied away from whatever threatened to pop. My tastes in color are ever shifting, but I’ve always felt welcome on the ruddy end of peach.
On the subject of throwing things on, I still to this day—despite much effort!—have no idea what I want in a shoe.
Went out for a nice lunch. The rain started as soon as we sat down and fizzled out just as we were ready to leave, only to start again when we got through our door.
Every time I glance at the bookshelves I think of paring them down. Take that book on the second shelf on the left, The Island of the Day Before—I’ll never crack it open again. But I bought it on a whim while traveling, just to have something to read on the way home, and it reminds me of a good trip—to Norway, as it happens. If asked I would say I’m no collector of stodgy mementos, and I could give many pieces of evidence to support the claim. But I’d be ignoring a small number of Things Lying Around that would, on hearing this prattle, upspring to fly in the face of what I was saying. None of them are of a pattern—or maybe I just haven’t discovered the key. This Eco is at any rate one of them; it is the one relic I have of a trip that looked for the world like it would go badly but sweetly didn’t, and I don’t want to give my relic away.
Had a pickle.
As I said at the start, only stray thoughts today. It's been a relief to have nothing besides them. Nothing feels final; I've found an interlude, and it’s all murmur and small-talk here.
Yours gabblingly,
Mitchell Cooper