18 December 2013
It’s been another rest and recovery day. What are we like? Falling apart. I hope your migraine is better. My back is getting better, but it means that everything else in the world has to be moving slowly. If it’s not, my head spins a little bit.
The Christmas tree is up today:
No lights yet, and we’re going to wait for Mom and Jamie to get here on Sunday to do the ornaments. But it smells like Christmas now.
I’m in the middle of The Forgetting Room by Nick Bantock, and really loving it.
In the early hours of my seventh day in Ronda there was a monumental storm. Tailgating thunderclaps rattled the windows, the lamp-black sky spat like a Gatling gun, and lightning bleached hard-white the room. The massiveness of the drama thrilled me, gave me proportion, showed me my real size in the scale of things. Insignificance has its advantages — free will means nothing to the cosmos.
An idea or an insight doesn’t come from a single happening, it requires a meeting to alter a perspective. Often it takes a while for the events to collide, but when they do it is inevitable that a change will follow.
I was walking through the rain-flushed streets, feeling cleansed of yesterday’s turmoil, when Lorca’s words, “Duende is a power… a struggle not a concept,” rose in me and crashed against the liberation I’d felt in the heart of the night’s storm, and suddenly I grasped a strange reality. Duende wasn’t a mere concept, it was the essence of existence.
pg. 84, The Forgetting Room by Nick Bantock
Off to bed, where sleep will melt away the tenseness in these muscles.