Today, I am overwhelmed by coincidence, and the sense that in its own weird little way, the world sometimes tries to say things–I don’t know what they mean, exactly, but there they are. First I am in the basement at work smelling of dust and sweat, looking at things that seem very old, and then I am reminded of all the unlikeliness in the world, and maybe, when I come back upstairs, I look a little shocked, but it doesn’t matter, because they’ll just ride it off to the cramped heat downstairs and anyway, it’s springtime now, and people are allowed to be a little crazy.
At home there is the biggest spider I think I have ever seen in my life tucked in one of the folds at the top of the curtains. I can’t reach it, but even if I could I’m not sure what I would do. I am afraid of it and fascinated by it; I neither want to disturb it nor do I especially want the threat of it hanging over me every time I enter the room. Still, it adds a strange thrill to the mundane.
So because of the spider, instead of sinking into the couch, I go out into the garden and chase the sun down the concrete path towards the vegetable patches; in my swimsuit, I sit on a backless red chair and read my book. I read up until the point when Antonia Quirke and Jonathon Marr have finally started speaking again and am so happy I start grinning, because from the way she writes it, they’re good together. People who are good together like that deserve to be together. Wait, I want to amend that: they need to be together. For not just their sake, but for everyone’s.
Inside it is cool and the spider is still there and I feel light, like I know something I didn’t when I woke up in morning. Is this what snooping feels like? No–this is what convergence feels like.