Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Barcelona: June 2012

Sitting in the Park seeing the scribbles which brought me back to Sunday and a beer with Jennie and Luis, I thought how nice it is to live in a park.  After what was lifetime in the box.
And it is.


Crossing from sun to shade and seeing the fountain from another view.  A schizoid homeless guy is my only companion and the difference is that I have a pencil and write my thoughts.  No one else is alone to enjoy it all as it unfolds.  Is this consciousness of self, self-consciousness, or is it included by Feynman's wonder that his understanding of the heavens could fail to enhance his joy at their beauty.  

To hear the sound of the fountain and see the shadows.  It is easy to imagine the desire to capture it and share a vision.  I prefer to enjoy alone, sharing, if at all, with a companion.  So I decide that I will start and try to share her madness as she has promised to try and share mine.  And so, tomorrow, I will be with her when she paints, and then who knows.

And then I go back in somewhere, here, and have my way and say what I will and what came before is not followed by what came next.

I sit watching, seeing first the fat girl with the bright red hair wearing a striped, tight shirt;  and then, the medi-ambiente worker in bright yellow vest.  They punctuate the air.  Life happens and I am there, observing.  A part of it and apart from it.  I write it, making it happen.

The writing itself is a shuffling of worlds.  Is that a way to see something new.

Walking to another spot where a woman and her dog walk away.  I sit and watch the 20 somethings play balance in the air and remember what it was like to be able to do anything.

It is a joy to be here.  I am lucky.  I am fortunate to be, to enjoy,  For years, I was only what I did.

The next morning at the beach.  The sun is hot, the water cold.  Music plays: the sound of the surf mixed with Pharaoh Saunders.

My sybarite's dream fulfilled.  I am easily pleased or very lucky.

Or both.  Anyway, a week later things are pretty much the same.  Works for me although I wish I would ...., I wish I would ....  And back to being a 63 year (almost) year old youth not yet able to function in an appropriate fashion.  I think of the evening and wanting sex.  And now I'll find out who (if anyone) actually reads blogs.

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