palace of winds

Yesterday’s entry ground to a striking halt beneath a mountain of work. And I don’t expect today to be any different, really, but I’m trying to steal a little time before everyone gets rolling (or, you know, shows up).

This morning I stepped outside to the unexpected smell of carnival — faint but unmistakeable, the delirious scent of something sweet and empty-carbolicious being fried, and my soul briefly but violently craved funnel cake and elephant’s ears. Luckily it’s passed now, as I imagine any quantity of either of those things would probably make me ill, used as I am now to a diet largely composed of veggies and whole grains and other relatively unprocessed things. And actually, if you set a funnel cake and about any piece of fruit in front of me right now, I would choose the fruit. Especially if it were a banana because I haven’t had one all week, woe. Must get to the grocery store.

This weekend I pledge to do my taxes and stare at my finances long enough that I can make a reasonable guess about how much I can afford to put into my shiny new retirement account. Or the shiny retirement account I will open for myself on Monday, anyway. It makes me feel secure. Like maybe one day I really will be one of those fit ass-kicking old ladies who backpacks around Europe for months at a stretch.

And like maybe one day I really will have a tinyhouse of my own. I think about it off and on all the time — mostly during those rare sporadic fits of cleaning and unpacking (still, woe). I mentally plot out the space I think I need — the space I could do without. How I might like to have things arranged. Trying to imagine the walls pulled in a little closer. Everything more efficient, smoother, cleaner. Smelling of new raw wood and sunlight. A garden full of bell peppers and tomatoes and carrots. Lemongrass in the windowbox. A tree heavy with cherries. Little porch with a hammock and me lost in a book. Birdsong.