Wednesday's Child

Two and a half days of happiness, though I had to be very patient, and now a huge row.

I forget because she is so high functioning, that she is not quirky, not dancing to her own drum, not anything charming. I forget that she is seriously ill, that in the past she has been dangerously so. I forget because I just want everything to be wonderful. So it just gets dumped, whatever it may be. I don't lie, because that disrespects the kid who got hurt, but sometimes I let a bad thing lie.

Even this is not enough for her. Whatever it is, it must never have happened at all, and I am a f*cking liar if I maintain it did, or look upset for a second, or point out something she doesn't like. Then the abuse starts and it's just so hurtful. And here I am again, the one who wasn't heard, the kid who's being dramatic, the absurdity who doesn't know what hardship is. I know some elements of hardship. I know what it's like to have no right to reality beyond the screaming demands of a pair of bullies, one of whom was drunk and psychotic, the other of whom was schizophrenic and psychotic, neither with more than five minutes empathy between them. I know what it's like to live in a house when someone tells you that there's whispering through the walls or you're trying to poison them or everybody hates you or if you tell anyone you're unhappy the government will take you away and give you to people who will molest you. I know - and I will write this down now, and leave it hanging in the uncensored aether for as long as I can bear it - I know what it was like to have the shit repeatedly beaten out of me by someone who, in the grips of genuine and severe psychosis, could not control their rage. That's what I know, me and my charmed life.

I am feeling sorry for myself. But if I am not honest now, when will I be? The people who hurt me couldn't help themselves, I understand. My stupidity is in this Pollyanna readiness to forget, to somehow believe that there is no real difference between any of us, and then be knocked for six when this stuff comes lurching out of the dark. But it is shocking when a seemingly rational person suddenly denies you your own memories, when they cannot bear even a moment's realisation that it was not all as they fantasise. And why must my experiences never be honoured? Why must the real always take second place to the preferred, because she was powerful and ill then, and she's powerless and ill now? When is it anyone else's turn to be considered? And suppose she hurts herself tonight? She will not; she is terrified of death. And the brutal truth is that if she does do something, I can't stop her.

Anyway. What do I want? I love the beauty of the city, I could just go and wander as usual. But some part of me wonders if I could leave, go spend some time in the Sierra Nevada, closer to the rivulets of snow that grace the peaks. But the hotel has been paid for and I have already spent a lot this week.

I should be kinder and will be, given enough time to get past my own sorrows. I won't try to make anything better tonight, but will reset tomorrow, and remember who is really ill.

That's the thing I must never forget. For all her elegance and capability and affection, she is really ill. I am merely hurt.

Time to paint my face and wander out. The old city says, 'stay.' It is always kind.

La Duende

Garcia Lorca wrote an essay about La Duende; from its origins as some goblin of northern Spain, he either transformed it or detailed its transformation into a primal source of inspiration that seizes the artist and transcends all taught rules, force through form too passionate to be denied. Here are his words: https://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Spanish/LorcaDuende.php and while they are lovely, I don't forget the goblin either.

Tonight at the Arbolea in Granada, was I really facing La Duende? Probably not but it was still beautiful, the guitarist turning strings to silk and the dancers moving like bulls among the lilies for him. The singer was good enough, a voice rather sweet for flamenco and perhaps suffering a little for being surrounded by the exceptionally gifted. The male dancer sent me the ghost of a wink. I smiled and turned my attention to his feet, and in response he proved his artistry time and time again.

In some pub I met a magical American, who told me of the shows up at the Museo de Cuevas in Sacromonte. My family have never responded well to me going into gypsy territory alone, but I could enjoy this a lot, it sounds spectacular.

Everything else? I will deal with it tomorrow. I deal with everything tomorrow.

'Manuel Torre, a man who had more culture in his veins than anyone I’ve known, on hearing Falla play his own Nocturno del Generalife spoke this splendid sentence: ‘All that has dark sounds has duende.’
-Federico Garcia Lorca.