You Think?

I’m starting to wonder whether art is bad for the soul. Or being an artist, rather. One the one hand, people say that creating something –anything– is a good thing. To be in touch with your inner self to the point that you can put it into words, sounds or visuals is supposed to make you feel more grounded and at peace with yourself. Hence art therapy, for example.

But what about this? An artist friend of mine was recently forced to take on yet another job on the side to make ends meet. She successfully applied to the national railway company and is now completing training at their academy (yes, they have an academy…blew us both away). And she says it’s doing her the world of good: the group atmosphere is great and she’s feeling chatty and witty and sociable, quite unlike her usual not so confident and shy self.

On the home front, since I shelved my unfinished manuscript once again due to too much sh*t, I’m also feeling, if not the world of difference, then, say, at least a country or two. I feel as if I can breathe again after weeks spent under water without oxygen tank.

And, really, one doesn’t have to go that far in search of famous artists who are/were, shall we say, less than happy in their personal lives. So, seriously, are all artists doomed to be tortured souls?

Roberto The Builder

My building is undergoing some works of undefinable nature. Something to do with the basement and humidity, but precisely why they need to dig around its entire perimeter until the foundations shake is beyond me. If this wasn’t Spain I wouldn’t be worried. But it is. Be careful, some of my friends warned me. As if I could do anything to prevent the whole thing from collapsing, or at least have the prescience not to be here if/when it does.

Anyway, about the builders. They’re a mixed bunch of Latin Americans and Catalan, and every day as I wait patiently for one of them to lower a plank over the two metre deep hole so I can cross to the other side (first having to crawl out of the said hole and locate the plank which, depending on who’s looking and who used it last, can take some time), I have the urge to call them –any one of them– Roberto. Bob. But I doubt they would get the reference (why should they, really?), so I don’t.

I digress. Here’s the thing about these builders –and any other builders I’ve ever had the pleasure of living in the vicinity of: they start work at 8 am on the dot, as loudly as possible. And then they promptly stop at 9, not to be heard of again for at least a few hours. Why is that?

I Can Explain

One of my favourite songs by one of my favourite jazz singers. Talk about a voice being an instrument! She rocks, Ms. Ferrell…

Titles Require Too Much Effort (Right Now)

Ok. It’s bloody sodding here, and has been on and off for the past few weeks. Is this why I moved to Spain?! I think not. Today I had to brave the storm to do a spot of shopping. There’s an age old saying that goes: when the sh*t hitteth the fan, a girl has to shop. Or something like that. Anyway, I came home with a) a strapless, boho-ish, tight-bodice-but-kinda-flowing-from-there-onwards dress, off-white with a dark reddish/purple flower pattern. b) a pair of cool bermuda-but-I’m-not-45-nor-am-I-a-dork shorts in hot fuchsia, which was a tad too hot so I dyed them as soon as I got home. I used navy blue on them so they’re now a funky purple. And c) an assortment –well, three. Is that an assortment yet?– of white candle holders. one is a Moroccan-type lantern, the other two have different patterns, but white’s the overall theme here.

Oof. Much better.

And now I just painted my toenails –I bet you were just gagging for that piece of info. Another strategy out of my Feeling Better Manual. We’re going for the all-round multi dimensional approach, just so you know.

And my balcony is almost starting to resemble a wee garden, I realised. It started a few months ago with innocently and inconspicuously getting rid of some of the landlords’ cacti (yuk!!). But then I had all those empty pots, you see. So I added a gardenia (and every time I open the siding doors I’m like, ooooh, love the scent!); a small plant with purple bell like flowers (when I asked the shopkeeper for the name she said, ‘es muy complicado’. That’s Spanish for ‘I don’t know’); a wild thyme plant (the scent reminds me of my grandparents’ house in Portugal. I walked past, smelled it, couldn’t resist). And I’ve planted seeds of morning glory and of some Serrano peppers. Both are starting to sprout now, so exciting –yes, really. I wouldn’t have believed it either, but there’s some sort of gardeners fever that grabs hold of you, I swear. I now keep an eye on the balcony for sudden changes in weather conditions, and it’s not beneath me to move the pots around several times a day to avoid too much sun and/or rain.

I guess maybe I am a dork, and I should’ve left those shorts fuchsia…

Shirley

I’m currently overdosing on funny, easygoing, rom com movies. You can say what you like about Hollywood, but they do get you to take your mind off things…

This from ‘Rumor Has It’, where Shirley Maclaine gives an impromptu toast at her granddaughter’s wedding: “Life is short. Marriage is long. So…drink up, it’s going to make it feel a hell of a lot shorter”.

Don’t know why that really cracked me up…