The weather was clear today and I'm waiting for the full moon to rise over the wooded suburban hills across the way. Today was the sort of day for buying potting soil, weeding, pruning stray rose and rosemary canes, and sprucing up the walkways and retaining walls. It also was a day for minor electrical maintenance on the house.
On days like this my thoughts turn to Café John. This morning I took a rag and some cleaner and scrubbed and polished the glass top of the plastic wicker table. (Later Mark put some torn-out electrical wires on top, so I had to clean it again.) Then I swept off the cracked concrete patio and wished it was a little bit dryer out, so that I could bring out the indoor-outdoor carpet and not have moss grow on it.
My fantasy is to go out some morning when it's not too cold and write, pausing only to sip tea or partake of a small morsel, while soft music plays in the background. In a perfect little world, someone would bring me savories on a clever little arrangement of plates. But I have to prepare it myself. The bees buzz in rosemary and lavender, and the roses add their scent to the breeze. And then the useless creature hobbles over and meows for attention.
I used to have a gazing globe, green and perfect; but it exists only in memory.
I write, away from power cords and the internet.
And then the tea is cold, or the Neighbors with Loud Trucks return, or the battery icon on the laptop displays one less bar and anyway it's time to run some other errands. I find myself, garbed in polar fleece and jeans, and not in a velvet bedroom jacket and white silk cravat. I gather the empty plates and retreat to the kitchen, where the other dishes are waiting. My writing is done.
But for a moment I was somewhere else, somewhere elegant, where writers are sustained and supported by a garden of sensual herbs, the promise of clean crisp linens, and hot porcelain.