The moon was like one of those gummy orange slice candies.
We were driving to Birmingham at night and listening to Belle & Sebastian (Beatrice loves it; she's much more emo than Elmo, haha, and with a frequently furrowed brow, and I see this and realize "she is being herself," "she is becoming herself," a process about which I can do precious little, a staggering thing, really, to see a small person becoming a person, with or without you, largely without you, I suspect, the first stirrings of all the letting go yet to come) and I was thinking about how very much I love being in the car, in the passenger seat, particularly at night. The horizon disappears so that it feels like we are driving straight into the night, that we are actually creating the road as we drive. I have this same thrill when I read something good, that I am creating the story as I read, that in my hands the book is becoming exactly what it was meant to become.
Beatrice, the road, the book; Beatrice, the road, the book. All three things becoming.
Beatrice, the road, the book; Beatrice, the road, the book. All three things becoming.