Gal running with hands below waist, palms parallel to ground, an “Egyptian” or “ready for anything” posture… Gal running with hands at chest-level, palms out, a “please don’t” posture, running on balls of feet… Old gal hawking with impressive unselfconsciousness, reaching so deep in the lung that, as I reflect on it moments later, I am myself made to choke and cough.
How writing sometime purges, other times reinforces memories. Thus I’ve never had a stronger sense of pyracantha than after having, the other day, written the word down for the first time (as if perhaps a dew point had been reached, with the “dew” being conscious memory); thus, it used to be I would think of the line of An Octopus about chipmunks whenever I saw chipmunks, but after having written of always having that memory on seeing that animal, which I very frequently do, now I hardly do. (Though maybe, on having written this, that connection will be restored.)
.i`` * ^ / . . . . . ` `~ 