it's summer in london. like, real legit summer, ya'll. two weeks of 70+. everybody is freaking. all the pale complexions have roasted into the most amazing shades of pink.
yesterday, it was 85 degrees. EIGHTY-FIVE.
c.smartt's back from ethiopia. we met up in russell square with a bottle of rosé and a pile of tropical fruits and laid out in the sun.
yes, we whined because it was hot and we went to see a movie in order to sit in the AC and we went to c.smartt's flat to research plane tickets to exotic destinations because we're a bit antsy being on an island. but still. in spite of the restlessness, which is maybe always present no matter how good we've got it, i don't know when summer has ever felt so luxurious, so precious.
the deck chairs are out in hyde park. i saw benedict cumberbatch on the tube. wimbledon's on (or at least it was). there are chausson pommes and fresh flowers and random lunches at ladurée. i'm writing until 2 a.m. and eating 1£ cherries and reading joan didion and dreaming about tonya harding and watching the americans and scandal and wearing zebra print flats and cultivating a really nice tan.
there is a tension in writing, that is both awful and key. both an opening up and a shutting down. i've always said that, if i were to write what i want to write, i would need to be in therapy because it requires a state of mild depression in which i would need that safety net.
i'm in therapy. and i am writing. something that is either very good or very awful, depending on the day. yesterday, it was good. today, i fear it's dreadful. tomorrow, who knows?
fortunately, there are berries and barbecues and the blazing sun and lazy sundays. small things, tiny beauties that go a surprisingly long way in easing the nuisance of ambivalent paragraphs.