I think a lot about Virginia Woolf and the way she filled her pockets. I wonder where the pebbles that pinned her down have ended up. Is one living a life as a paperweight, serving a sentence holding down pension paperwork? Do they lie in the deeps of the river, bragging to their friends about their brush with fame? Which stones have I stepped on today? I worry about the atrocities of the stones that I tip from my shoes, giving them the chance to trip up someone much less deserving.
I think a lot about Virginia Woolf and the way she filled her pockets. I think about how she dressed that cold morning before she died. Did she wear a scarf to her innundation? What did she wear under her coat? Did she bother to bring her house keys that day? Did she think twice? I wonder if she wanted to change her mind, but perhaps the stones forbade her. Today I wore clothes I’m to be buried in. Clothes to rot with. I think about the water in her lungs, and her last breath rising up to meet my skimmed stones.
I think a lot about Virginia Woolf and the way the filled her pockets. How long she might have sat on the river bank, selecting stones. Did she consider aesthetics? Density? Mixing shards of flint with the lint already lining her pockets. Was it a desperate move? I think of her hands clawing the dirt of the river, the sand and grit under her nails, versus the serene way I picture her as she walks into the depths of the water, arms spread out like Christ hanging on the cross.
I think a lot about Virginia Woolf and the way she filled her pockets. I cannot pass by the river without a swarm of spooked swans descending on me for snacks. What did they think, sitting, watching her labour away, urgently piling stones into her pockets? Did they approach? Or were they scared? Were they afraid of Virginia Woolf? Because I think a lot about it, and I I think she was.