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the white table

The days are not long. The nights are short. Guitars are hiding in cases, with scraps of paper tucked inside. The pen is full. There is a fresh notebook, with creamy pages. The little white desk is in the middle of the living room, a cascade of receipts and laundry perched on it.

I clean it off, have lunch as it stares back at me. This focal point, this fulcrum where my thoughts become real, this cheap folding table from Ikea. It is familiar, and patient.

Silver Street


Somehow, I am still there. We are taking a walk on Silver Street late in the afternoon. There are stray cats, and the sound of children playing. The smell of wood smoke, and fresh bread, of salt and coriander are wrapping around the parked cars, the crumbling walls, the peeling paint of Tbilisi. My stomach is still full from lunch. I just want coffee, cold and sweet. 

The streets are somehow familiar even though it has been a few years. My feet know the way, predicting the apartments around a corner. A balcony, some wash swinging in a low breeze. A courtyard lost in shadow. An old man with no shirt on carrying a bottle of wine. 

There is a rhythm to the days in Georgia. Yes, work gets done but somehow it feels so effortless. There are faces in the street that are not worried, or scared, not nervous, not looking at you out of the corner of their eye. Yes, the cars drive fast but I do not hear the angry bleat of a horn. I do not hear the ugly squeal of tires. I hear laughter, a breeze, a dog barking. 

Someone is selling raspberries. 



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