Portable speaker in bed of moss on rock by firepit

The slow collapse of order brought me comfort, the release to chaos. The house in disarray with shoes everywhere and kids and unclaimed cups and odd dining hours (10 o’clock for dinner) that reminded me of our times in France with Laurent, the feeling of utter abandon, the best kind of carelessness. The feeling I could be anyone apart from it. I was one with a sense of place and that place was free and wild, unusual, hard to pin down or replicate…a space passing between other places more fixed in their realness but less interesting. And I was weary from the chaos of late nights and troubled sleep, and looked foggy and blanched out, squinting from the sun. And those afternoons it seemed all time had stopped or slowed down and we were stuck just looking at the clock but it wouldn’t move and nor could we, and all there was to consider were naps or showers and appetizers or chocolates, to collapse as something that lost all air and returned to its disfigured shape in a heap flaccid and empty, still once again.

Categories: prose

Tags: bohemianism, bohemians, control, identity, Memoir, new Slowdive, prose, Slowdive, travel, William Pearse writer, writing