I like to get a bit boozy on Friday evenings. It feels a bit like Chapel, personally sacred and soft. I get home and wash off the workday, dress up for no one but myself, making sure that the fabrics draped off of me are plush and comforting. And, accompanied by the lingering scent of naked soap – a sort of oil and lye scent – I fill up a cup with some wine. I ensure that the light of the room is dappled and muted, that the sounds of my home are whispers. This is the mother milk of the weekends. It helps me to untangle the knotted up thoughts that have clung to me. Helps to unravel the tension that seems to colonize in my muscles without me having noticed. How did my arms become so drawn? How did my neck become so bewilderingly sore?
Sometimes the wine tugs me along towards my kitchen counter, sometimes to the fireplace, sometimes to the sofa with a well-worn book. But one thing is constant: it helps unlatch the gate to the garden of Friday evenings. To the sanctum where the candles are lit and some invisible siren is sweeping up the day with sincere melodies. Somewhere in the week’s dissipation I become the mist clinging to a cliffside on some distant, sunset-drenched isle.0