Too Much

Whistler's Purple and Rose: The Lange Lijzen of the Six Marks

I am saturated with work, with fatigue, with the watery world of Proust's memories (Volume Six: Here I come!).

And I'm longing for open vistas, for crisp gusts of wind, for the crackle of leaves trampled over in sturdy boots. I'm longing to spend more than 15 minutes in the cool sunshine of autumn. I want this weekend to be a swirl of thought, studded with a trip to the new Vollard exhibit, the careful transcription of my notes on Proust, a plunge in the water, and visits with old friends.

I'd like cups of earl grey with shortbread; a pot of greek yogurt, and some fresh apples.

I want to spend time at my window, shutters thrown open, feet on the sill, reading and looking down onto the tops of the linden trees lining my street. Those dusty-grey trunks and powdery-green leaves, just turning up at the edges. Hans Castorp took the song Der Lindenbaum into his heart where it lived as something uniquely his and ever-renewing. I want a song in my heart, wings on my feet, and a forest canopy over my head.

I want to find a grey dress, sharp in its lines and soft in its color. A cobalt blue sweater, a silk scarf with a William Morris print, a pair of cognac-colored leather boots.

I'd like for a cat to keep me company as well, a robust Maine Coon with tufts of hair on its ears, or a silent Russian Blue with knowing, amber eyes. I've always had cats, but they've been family pets; now I'd like a cat of my own, with a name like Ivan the Terrible or Catherine the Great.

Most of all, I'd like an organic weekend, not at all curated or arranged, I'd like it to spring forth naturally, uncurling itself and lingering.