i spent most of the day yesterday out inland on the countryside, as opposed to just having bummed about near the seaside. it was a rather grey day. i like" grey day" photography, still i was as lazy as they can get. i had a lunch break of four hours with cousins whose degree of relatedness i will always be at a loss to explain, and for which my curiosity most decidedly fails in want for deciphering the family ties. i like these cousins, they are simple people who do not pretend to be anything more than who they are.
barely was i over the fact that my wonderful irritation of just a few days disappeared in the face of a weekend of glorious weather skiing in the swiss alps, i found myself dealing with the "family guilt treasure" on a cool spring afternoon on the algarvean coast. another evening i spend a few moments with the now hyperactive man who many years ago was so present in my life and who for years was so distant. my long lost love and friend, found again four years ago, does not show up in my memories as hyperactive, but these days, he seems so not at rest, and i wonder what is mine and what is his on this issue. in his newly remodeled kitchen we exchanged a few rapid words about living alone, being happy with how things are, and money. then he introduces me to other friends who had just come by, and says something about awaiting the translations of my last story to portuguese. it was disturbing to discover that my sentiments for him have not changed in the past 34 years, he remains a man whom i love. i just do not know what happened in between, and life find us both now hurt and trying to heal the wounds of a life lived in fury, idealism and blindness and ever so careful and caring towards each other. he asked me to come back today, and i am hesitating. there is both a tremendous closeness and a unsurpassable distance between us. i truly have the blues, this is starting to hurt.
in yesterday's laziness it dawned on me that while i was sure i knew my life's plan last week, this week i know nothing. i consider this progress. i looked around my very wild garden and wondered what propels me to want to go to strasbourg if not the love for a man's garden. to have the desire to learn in my teacher's garden, to experience my muse, and to tell a story that has me spellbound and haplessly writing and questioning my existence, has me sure that reason has abandoned me long long ago. i though that i knew, but i do not.
