I sit typing on a small Samsung notebook, which by the way has survived the rigors of ‘Dampworld’ better than it’s owner, and I think as I eat motorway service’s chicken curry with Basmati rice, that it has been a remarkable two months just past.
I blogged nowhere near as much as I had intended and for that I make no apology. Life itself was in the way of my proclivity to enter in and out of cyberspace and in that respect I, and my life, are the winners. We, my life and I, have come to rest in a place that is grounded…earth has inhabited my being and i whiff of musty damp soil…it’s in my fingernails and in my odour…I am scent of sod.
Perhaps the fever that has accompanied my infectious invader is warping my reality…despite being ill, I feel fabulous, centered and alive…my time at Wiston, this portion at least, is almost at an end…two days of construction lie ahead and the hope that the male/female changing room project will be completed afore I go…then another drumming day to follow the two days just that see me sat here and not in my tent…I’ll let you in on a secret. The tent is down. Packed away. I’m in a cottage, with a bed and a chest of drawers…still coldish but not so damp…it’ll carry me over the line….then back south to the land of the Bridge to reconvene with another life as another person…exciting.
That I love Mrs Scribbles is unquestionable and I am pleased to report the truth for her is the same…but now we know we can love and live apart…what freedom may this bring? What doors may it open? Who knows….as I travel south I will wonder at the miracle of love and it’s mysterious way and I will be glad to feel the warm embrace of my soul mate once more…we continue to dance our unique and somewhat unconventional dance and we are the better for it…..the drummer drums the dancer…the dancer dances the drummer…2 into 1 does go.