Winter

The varicose, twisted, arthritic fingers of winter are with us again. This is fabulous news because it signifies that we are still alive. At least, I'm fairly sure I'm still alive given that all the pain and biological secretions are oozing from me like resin from a tree.

Someone in a jumper

I am pixilated. But the countryside around here is not. In fact if you can manage to get away from urban desecration, the monstrous violation of the natural landscape to which Galicia has been subjected over the previous decades then you might actually find some quite pretty places.

The lighthouse walk

Everything is changing speed for Christmas. Things are slowing down in my head but speeding up just beneath my skin. Jacob seems to be very happy and curious and sensitive and relatively well adjusted. Despite his mother. She wanted him to have a party with plastic balls and another 25 four-year old children. I said I didn't agree for a plethora of reasons:

1. It would have cost about 250 euros- 125 euros each
2. For some reason each child's parents then pays 10
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   euros which Loreto would then of course keep
3. The child whose birthday it is has to sit upon a throne for about two hours opening presents which he forgets about as soon as they are open
4. I would of course attend, providing Loreto with an opportunity to cause any combination of scenes, outbursts, explosions, stresses etc.
5. This would almost certainly be traumatic beyond belief for Jacob.

He had his standard party in school in his classroom with his classmates and teacher and a cake and sweets all paid for by me.

So, voilà. 

Rather than drone on about how his mum burst in on his class lambasting and screaming at his teacher, a veritable scandal, I will simply conclude with a poem.

I DREAMED that one had died in a strange place
Near no accustomed hand,
And they had nailed the boards above her face,
The peasants of that land,
Wondering to lay her in that solitude,
And raised above her mound
A cross they had made out of two bits of wood,
And planted cypress round;
And left her to the indifferent stars above
Until I carved these words:
i{She was more beautiful than thy first love,}
i{But now lies under boards.}