Pissing in the Dark...

...Or Not Such a Good Day.

So here's a funny not-talent; I can go in and out of imaginary worlds. I don't need costumes or props, I can do it on a stage, in front of a camera, on a hill, in a field, in a scout hall. Tell me the story and I can join in; I can actually see it, feel it, be there. Sometimes that's a good thing because I'll give my credence to someone else's reality and breathe life into it. And sometimes I give energy to a dream that's not worth a damn.

Long ago I decided never to use that ability to validate an unworthy game. So why do I do it now? When it's entertaining and my contribution is welcome... or when the dreamer can't leave what they've made, when they can't meet me here.

And this is why I found myself today, in a place where there is no light but we never say that, and no electricity but we don't mention it, and no running water but we don't talk about it; in the utter dark, desperate for the loo only to find myself peeing on the closed toilet lid, urine running everywhere other than where it should, me trying to clean the floor in the dark, unable to find the mop, the paper, the water, the lavender cologne,the fifty shades of industrial-strength-don't-get-this-on-your-hands disinfectant, just unable to do anything except want to scream:

'GET YOUR FUCKING ELECTRICITY WORKING - NO, THEY HAVEN'T CUT YOU OFF, YOU'VE TORN THE WIRES OUT OF THE WALLS. GET YOUR FUCKING WATER RUNNING - NO, THEY HAVEN'T CUT YOU OFF, YOU HAVE DONE SOMETHING RIDICULOUS TO YOUR CISTERN AND PIPES. STOP BREAKING EVERYTHING, STOP SCRATCHING HOLES IN THE WALLS, STOP SCRATCHING WEIRD SHIT ON YOUR DOOR, CLOSE YOUR WINDOWS YOU FUCKING IDIOT BEFORE SOMEONE BREAKS IN, AND OPEN YOUR CURTAINS SO WE CAN AT LEAST SEE IN THE DAY, NOT HIDE IN HERE LIKE HALF-ARSED SUPERSIZED WEREMOLES.'

But all right, I get that some people can never leave the worlds they make, and it's not a choice. I have the choice to meet them there, seems like I've been doing it all my life, and here's what I learned; if you have the ability to enter other people's worlds, think carefully and know why you do it. Don't spend your life pissing in the dark.

Puta de cana

I don't even know what that means...it's a cuss for sure, something like 'Old Whore!' or 'Whore of a Policeman!' I think Cana has several meanings. My Spanish is well ropey, unlike my frustration, which is on the money.

I went to pick her up this morning. Either she's not in, or she's not answering the door. Because there is absolutely no way of getting in contact with her, I hared back here in case she decided to meet me in my hotel in central Granada, contrary to our instructions yesterday. She's not here either. So I am sitting in the salon on the fourth floor, updating here while my head settles and I try to work out what to do next. Maybe she'll turn up here. God, this drives me mad.

Yesterday was not easy for several reasons...There is a quiet but determined contingent holding out for me to have my wedding here, the whole protocol of timing/invitations remains a question unanswered, my mother is - or was, last time I knew - terrified and furious at the thought of me having a honeymoon in Africa, my niece is having her first communion in May, to which she very prettily invited Russ and me, and I don't see how we can make it. Also, the termagent is in great pain right now; how old she looks! I hate to see her in such low spirits. She can barely walk at all, and sits like a crumpled little rag at table, feet on the brazier. She is still full of feist though;
'Can you gently massage my back dear? Just there...you have such gentle hands, saint's hands...'
'Aunty, my hands are cold, maybe I should just warm them before -'
'No, no, it's the cold I likeJesuswhatswrongwithyourhands? They're like ice! Get away, don't even point at me, the cold from them is like a wind from the mountains. Are you trying to kill me?'

Mum dragged me around a number of horrible shops yesterday, determined to buy me something warm - I was fine but she didn't approve of my dress for winter - and finding advice for me on how to lose more weight. She even asked a woman who runs a local cake shop. This paragon has lost 'lots of weight in her face.' The secret, apparently, is Tai Chi. 'All very well,' said Mum, having bought half my body weight in cakes to take to the family, 'But you don't need to lose weight from your face. It's your stomach we need to deal with.'

She reiterated the sins of my stomach - from which I had proudly lost a few pounds, until I got here and started to hit the cerbezas - to my family when they asked if I would like a Sevillanas wedding dress. This is the kind of dress you see on many Spanish dolls and is a basic fishtail, fitted most of the way down, flaring out dramatically beneath the knees.
'No, we can't have her in one of those,' Mum announced to the family, 'Not until she's trimmed a bit. It's a shame, I saw a fantastic one yesterday.' I may take a photo of this glory and put it here as a permanent reminder of the enchantment that could be mine with just a few more situps.

Anyhoo, today. I don't know what to do about Mum. Do I stay here in the middle of town, do I go back to Zaidin? There is always the danger of me getting there just as she gets here. I don't fancy sitting here all day or travelling back and forth in a taxi trying to second-guess her. Pfff.