I’d only experienced this once before: a sudden and overwhelming need to sleep so strong there was nothing that would keep the eyes open and the fingers moving. Same as the three or four am drop into sleep when the muscles can’t even hold up a book any more. Except this was three or four in the afternoon.
The funeral is over. Life moves on. At some point in the new year, there’ll be an exhibition of Jean’s work, no doubt incorporating the slide show pulled together from thousands of photos done by him, plus a few of him as seen by others.
Story: a lot of trouble finding traction on this one. There’s a change of perspective involved. I haven’t mastered it yet. A form of irony I use on a regular basis in “real” life that isn’t coming through in fiction. My best hope: in the slide show, no one recognized me as photographed by Jean in clown makeup. Two shots included: one of the clown scowling, the other of the clown with a smile more cunning than cute. Age wrinkles showing through the white face. Clowning is a lot of work. A mix of timing and letting go. Letting go. Letting go.
Making this living space my own. Making the fiction my own. Letting the characters be who they are – and discover who they aren’t, whether they like it or not. Whether I like it or not too.
Violent storms started up in the night. Power cuts expected.