[Paul, comment made in passing to Jocey whilst living together. ]
I came to Maine by mistake. In reality, I was headed for New Mexico believe it or not.
Ada - diary excerpt - page 1-2
For me, events had unfolded in such a way that it was impossible to look back and say, "I can alter this" or "I can change this tiny bit of mistake." No, for me the only way was forward. In the evenings, when it was possible, Adam would meet me in the gardens. We'd walk and stare at the stars or in between the branches. Nonsense, really. Nonsense since the time spent together was isolated, an island, a piece of broken thread beautiful but useless. Too short to fold, too long to pin through another.
Paul
I had family in New Mexico. My aunt would put me up, food and board and all the rest of it for a bit of quiet. But then this position opened up where I could work at the paper in the mornings and find the quiet in the afternoons.
------------ Present day, New York
I light a cig and wander around the room barefoot. I don't know which way to go from here. I don't know the answers. If Paul can be threaded through Ada then surely I would have found the way to combine them all. But I can't place the two together.
Ada - diary excerpt - page 2-3
The ocean waves were not choppy really. That's not quite the description. The sea was sparkling and still that one morning I would wave Adam off. But for now I want to describe the last bits and pieces of Beaulieu.
------------ Present day, New York"Hello?"
From across the world, I can hear his suntan pouring like orange juice from a posh champagne glass in effervescent glow.
"Well, aren't I a Hemingway short story?"
"More like Garcia Marquez "
"Is my suntan louder than my strength?"
I laugh and imagine Paul on a beach somewhere far away, against some jungle background with a crisp shirt on, incredibly sad incredibly photogenic.
"Joce, you should really come out here and just let loose you know?"
I remember a DH Lawrence passage from his Completed Works, which I picked up at an ancient bookstore I found one summer in Oxford. Probably across the shop which sold nothing but Alice in Wonderland trinkets.
"The Pilgrim fathers did not emigrate for freedom of worship, for England had more freedom of worship in the year 1700 than America. The Pilgrim Fathers wanted to get away from everything and in the long run, away from themselves. Which is all very well, but it isn't freedom."
The movement of understanding sweeps over me and it's so easy to compartmentalise my work. What does a writer do when they can't write anymore? Who does a writer become? They can escape the torment, they can "escape from themselves" but it isn't freedom. What writer wants freedom?
Ada - diary excerpt - page 2-3 continued
LONDON
We had to prepare for a day out. Everything had to be sorted well in advance due to my sister's obsession with planning our sojourns. Each hat box perfectly chosen for its colours and assortment with the rest of the suitcases. It is a cold December early in the morning, with the snow gushing out from under the carriage wheels. Ava has let her hair rather loose. I envy her. Adam and Maximillian would meet us there. What a feeling of possibility and bliss. It's so exciting. The cold air hurting my lungs, my long pink fingers in the cold.
I am alive, I think. This is happiness.
Ada - diary excerpt - page 2-3
The ocean waves were not choppy really. That's not quite the description. The sea was sparkling and still that one morning I would wave Adam off. But for now I want to describe the last bits and pieces of Beaulieu.
------------ Present day, New York"Hello?"
From across the world, I can hear his suntan pouring like orange juice from a posh champagne glass in effervescent glow.
"Well, aren't I a Hemingway short story?"
"More like Garcia Marquez "
"Is my suntan louder than my strength?"
I laugh and imagine Paul on a beach somewhere far away, against some jungle background with a crisp shirt on, incredibly sad incredibly photogenic.
"Joce, you should really come out here and just let loose you know?"
I remember a DH Lawrence passage from his Completed Works, which I picked up at an ancient bookstore I found one summer in Oxford. Probably across the shop which sold nothing but Alice in Wonderland trinkets.
"The Pilgrim fathers did not emigrate for freedom of worship, for England had more freedom of worship in the year 1700 than America. The Pilgrim Fathers wanted to get away from everything and in the long run, away from themselves. Which is all very well, but it isn't freedom."
The movement of understanding sweeps over me and it's so easy to compartmentalise my work. What does a writer do when they can't write anymore? Who does a writer become? They can escape the torment, they can "escape from themselves" but it isn't freedom. What writer wants freedom?
Ada - diary excerpt - page 2-3 continued
LONDON
We had to prepare for a day out. Everything had to be sorted well in advance due to my sister's obsession with planning our sojourns. Each hat box perfectly chosen for its colours and assortment with the rest of the suitcases. It is a cold December early in the morning, with the snow gushing out from under the carriage wheels. Ava has let her hair rather loose. I envy her. Adam and Maximillian would meet us there. What a feeling of possibility and bliss. It's so exciting. The cold air hurting my lungs, my long pink fingers in the cold.
I am alive, I think. This is happiness.
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