Cloudy Day

Sitting on a (hard!) stone bench this morning, staring at the waves and writing in my head, an old man stopped to talk to me. He’s my local hero, actually: he drags himself along on two walking sticks, back bent in an impossible contortion and nowhere to look but at the ground. I see him out there every day. Pity there’s no sun, he said, folding his neck to look up at me. I don’t mind, I answered back. In fact, I prefer it like this: cloudy in a most beautiful way. Oh well, he said and scratched his ear, in that case, I’ll tell them not to change it…

Cute.

Daddy’s Girl And Dates

One summer about an age ago when I was around nine or ten, my family and I played our only game of Trivial Pursuit. We were bored, it was the holidays, no one could find the deck of cards…whatever. Trivial Pursuit it was. I was teamed up with my dad, so it must have been my mum and brother in another team, and my grandparents in the third. One question was about palm trees: what fruit grows on them? The predictable answer, of course, is coconut, which is why this question must have ended up in the game. My dad was about to supply this wrong and obvious answer when I remembered something, nudged him and said, It’s dates. Realizing kids have access to a wealth of useless information –what else is primary school for?– my dad went with my answer. It was the right one and we won the game.

I still have a mind for useless information, and one hell of a memory to boot, which is why I could write down this anecdote. But then the other night I was on the phone with my dad, entertaining him with the latest from my life in Spain. I mentioned my daily walks along the shore, and how great it is that the climate’s mild enough for palm trees. Ah yes, he said, palm trees…with dates? I just loved that he remembered that.

Satan

by Ahdaf Soueif (from the collection ‘I Think Of You’)

‘”If you love my son,” she once said to her, “you are loved by me.” What would she say now if she knew the truth? Should she tell her the truth? She looks at her mother-in-law’s grieving, betrayed face. What is the truth but every detail of the last nine years? How can it be told?’

Sleepworking

I’m in one of those extremely rare (and fleeting) phases where work is going well. Which means my sleeping cycle’s shot to shreds and I catch a few hours whenever I can. Not a problem, I can live with the sleep deprivation and unavoidable headaches –two weeks straight though, which is pushing it– if I know I’m getting something useful out of it. I’m happy with my progress, which is all I’ll say because I don’t want to jinx it.

The annoying thing, though, is that I keep on writing while I sleep, and often come up with the perfect word, the exact right turn of phrase, that elusive, fitting expression. And I’m aware enough to realize it but not awake enough to reach out for my pen and notebook to jot it down. And the only thing that’s left when I wake up later is the agonizing recollection of the exact scene or part I managed to write, but nothing more than that.

*sighs* It’s a classic case of a tree falling in the woods: if you know that you’re a genius but no one else does…did you really fall?

Fried Brain For Breakfast

I’m thinking too much today, and I’m reminded of several men in my family. My grandfather’s reaction whenever my grandmother used to start a sentence with, Honey I’ve been thinking. He used to roll his eyes and mumble, God help me, here we go again. My uncle, who came up with the long form of Nike’s slogan: (don’t think), just do it. And my dad’s unique response to a ‘but I thought…’: a horse has such a big head but doesn’t think. And you, with your tiny little head, would want to do some thinking?

But growing up around these people hasn’t cured me of the habit. I still think too much. This past week, there have been some tragedies in my family, and some good news as well. Everyone is getting on with their lives as best as they can, it seems. Then today, I heard about another pregnancy and it made me think about happiness, about what that is exactly. ‘Different strokes for different folks’ is a good English expression, but news of pregnancies always makes me sad. It seems like such a simple, uncomplicated form of happiness to me, and it must be great if you can bring yourself to want that. Personally, I guess I’m more complicated –and therefore less happy? Or just in a different way…