It’s Christmas once again and I’d like to wish all of my dear readers dreams crushed in the wake of the bulk of progress, ever moving and obliterating every good thing in its path. Yes! Death! Families gather under the spotlight of commercialism and stragglers like myself are at times let into their midst. The grip of this season is unmistakable. It is icy in the north and it is sweltering in the south. It is precisely -3C where I am, actually.

The bed is cozy, however lonely. The room is stark except for my empty luggage, two coats and a rather silly formal shirt hanging from wooden hooks (I laughingly call them hooks) and a plastic bag tied, never revealing its contents, on the floor to my left.

The duvet is rumpled. I don’t feel as filthy as I think I should. Note: It has been ages since my skin did not crawl with probiotic fecal matter after awakening and prior to a shower. The Police are playing on Gulo, my trusty mobile phone which additionally sucks power from an outlet to my right. A flaccid lamp towers over him, glowing not.

I was fetched by Marisa and her two children yesterday at approximately noon and whisked through traffic in what she calls her Toyota (what this actually means remains a mystery to me). Above is a view through the bug speckled windscreen. She cursed the denizens puttering about in metal coffins (perhaps that is the definition of Toyota) with vigor until we were finally on the highway and flying at 120kph towards uncertain doom! Oh, I mean towards Fresneda - a village in the mountains in the provence of Burgos in Castille de León.

Now, Gulo is eructing an improvisition from the Trondheim set by Henry Cow. I’d love to blast this in the sala during mealtime. Fifteen or so people were gathered yesterday evening for the festivity of food, conversation, guffaws and lastly, poker. I went to bed before the poker game was in swing. Anyhow, these people would adore Henry Cow. I just know it. Somehow, my precise sense of intuition tells me so! Gurgle.

Initially, there were few people about. As anyone reading these words surely knows, I am more comfortable among small groups. And even in small groups, when they are throwing phrases in Spanish about relentlessly, I am utterly lost. One on one conversations in this language suit me best. Actually, one on one conversations in any language suit me best.

Here sits María, about to be engulfed by encroaching flames! Poor Maria! We will all miss her!

Arrrrrgggghhhhhhhhlllppmmmmmmmmmff! <— María.

I pause to clean the filth from my body.

The filth has been cleaned from my corporal being and I now sit in the sala of the otra casa and the fire is to my right. After consuming María yesterday, I sense that its hunger is weak and will not attempt to consume me. Fires of this sort are like serpents. It is sufficient to feed them only once a week, or at most every few days. I feel exceptionally safe. Paco, Anna Manuel and one of the youths whose name I forget sit to my left. They are in rapport. I have no clue concerning the subject of their phrases.

Marisa was sitting outside the house in the spot she always sits on a bench perpenticular to the entrance. She was smoking a cigarette when I opened the gate and strode across the lawn / driveway through the drizzle. Additionally, she was still in her pyjamas. I was the first to retire yesterday evening. The rest of the crew have been late to rise.

Two other groups arrived after we did yesterday. The second included two children (in contrast to youth), and an animal.

This particular animal is in a cage to my right about as far from the fire as I am, though perpendicular to the vector joining me and the fire. Since this animal is small and furry, I have a distinct hope that the flames lap the creature up as a snack. The tentacles can reach tentatively through the bars (I laughingly call them bars) of the cage, pretending deftly that they have a sense of smell. Once sensing the pliant flesh, proceed to transform into radiant sabres and impale the bunny, suck out its life from within and consume its flesh. All remaining is a husk of fur and charred skin. I gaze at the stupid and still living thing with hope that my vision comes true.

Marisa has provided me with myriad objects to feast upon just now. I have marmalade and crunchy toastie type thinghies. I have muffins, pate and cracker type thinghies. I have café con leche. I shall partake of the latter at this very instant.

I have been informed, additionally, that food will be ready durante de dos horas, so I should eat lightly. Heh! Eating lightly is not possible in this place. I wonder how often the people inhabiting this casa defecate every day. The amount of food they consume is practically unbelievable by the indigenous life on my home moon. My people would litterly burst from a type of fecal overload. I am sure my good reader can imagine clearly the patterns draped across the ceiling and walls of each room, dripping, after each explosion. The art of gluttony! Hooray! Gurgle.

Despite all of my grotesque imagry and sarcastic quips, I find myself happy these meandering days. Firstly, because of the fact that they are meandering. They stretch. Time has stretched again. This is only my perception, but, in the brain of a visón (o incluso eso de un humano), its reality is ultimate. Secondly, the people here, a huge and tightly knit family, accept me and are endlessly kind. Well, except for the youth who are a bit oblivious, as is normal with youth. I am fucking glad that I am not part of the all pervasive Venn Diagram that is youth. Fuck um. As I wrote a very short while ago, it is difficult to pick out the significance of their ultra-loud, crisscrossing conversations, but I am content. Perhaps I find it difficult to believe that a group of people - a bubble as it were, or better, a sphere - would let a deralict wanderer in their midst. Or perhaps I grew up with nothing at all like this, or if I did, I utterly rejected it.

Marisa is attempting to block the light capturing capabilities of Gulo’s camera with her gloved fists. Please, nobody tell her that I put a photo of her in the Martenblog.

Note to self: (Speaking of Gulo’s light capturing ability, these photos seem rather grainy in comparison to older entries. I’ll stop reducing the resolution so drastically in the future.)

As the night wore on and midnight passed, Paco and Alberto became interested in the animals I had been studying. I showed them videos of visones, ženety and kivinugisid and we discussed hunting. The pelts of Martes Martes were a very important financial resource for the mountain dwelling folk in the area surrounding Fresneda fifty, sixty and more years ago. Of course, now, it is illegal to trap and kill them.

And everyone loves that garduňas have adapted to urban environments.

This camaraderie heigtened my comfort in this environment even more. However, I was exceedingly tired by that point and proceeded to leave everyone’s company, but not before demonstrating my superior card shuffling skills after observing one of the youth’s ineptitude. Paco, at least, was very impressed.

I’ll leave you with an excellent nose.

I’d actually rather not talk about continuations and I ask kindly for you to never mention them again in my presence. If you comply with this request, I’ll be delighted and send you a photograph of my friend Christián being asphyxiated by a wildebeest..

(Christián)

So let’s jump right in.

As I was writing on 1 December, the attractive young woman at Plus Ultra gave me two phone numbers upon my arrival in Logroňo. I contacted Marisa immediately, but left Carmen to go about her life in peace for a time.

(1 December)

The photo above shows Carmen and I having a wild time (well, most likely an absurd and / or silly time) at some café / bar in the center of the city. I contacted her after I broke my relationship off with Marisa. The month was May, I belive, but I may be mistaken.

I sent a series of scurrilous messages to Marisa, as is my way of pushing someone further from the center of my life, because (I think) I felt we were getting too close and I thought (I think) I was not really attracted to her. As are all things in this universe, it was mostly my fault, as I encouraged kisses and hugs. We probably walked hand in hand even then. Marisa was certainly no stranger to affection, however. One of my first memories of her was when I walked her back to her edificio after one of our lecciones and she insisted that I be proximous with her corporal being. I complied and I believe it was the first night we kissed. I also recall walking away, crossing the vacant rotunda in front of that edificio, and muttering to myself: What the fuck do you think you are doing, Bob?

As the once famous and smelly Steve used to say - to make the long and short of it, after that, I ended up contacting Carmen. A few of our meetings in, I made it a point to relate the story of Marisa to her so things would not go awry. Hanging out with her was all I wanted.

As evidenced by the photo, we did have a jolly time together. I made stuffed zucchini at her place one time. We had a bottle of wine and she forced me to listen to some far too happy Latin-ish music. She introduced me to her neighbour and we smoked cigarettes together. We often went to El Rincón de Julio, drank beer, ate pintxos, had pseudo-lessons and laughed often. In a way, I miss her.

(El Rincón de...)

Speaking of El Rincón de Julio, I have gone there with pretty much everyone I know in this town and with my visitors from otherworldly colonies (Michal and Mirka). I find it exceedingly pleasant and recommend it even to the most crusty or pudgy gonorrhea afflictee out there.

(El Rincón de...)

Carmen left for vacation in Italy sometime during the end of the summer or beginning of the fall. I was back in full swing with Marisa by then, so slowly came the scurrilous messages sent Carmen’s way. It didn’t help that she hinted several times to me via SMS that she wanted something “more”. So she is history. Only this entry exists to remember her. Her ashes are already scattered in the río Ebro. And I don’t feel a thing.

During other restless night, punctuated with sleep but mostly filled with half-awake blear, I had a dream about María. For the curious ones, she is Marisa’s daughter. For the even curiouser ones, Marisa is the woman I am spending most of my evenings with. Back to the point: I had a dream about María.

María has a pájaro, a parakeet to be exact. This bird is restless to say the least. In my opinion, it is terrified of her and of her mother. My further opinion is this observation results from them not being able to relate to the bird on its own terms. That is, they have no idea how to think like a parakeet. I’m not saying that I necessarily do, either, but, then again, I do not own one. I suggested to Marisa last night they read up on the proper care, handling and training of such an animal.

Ok, since I am pressed for time (I need to finish paiting my room WHITE), I’ll get back to the dream.

It consisted of a series of animals, beginning with said parakeet. Each animal in sequence was larger and more agresseve than the one that came before. Each animal in sequence, furthermore, consumed the one before. The exact animals are not important. What is important is that María ended up at last with an anaconda. The anaconda consumed not only the animal before in sequence, but María herself.

I thought about the sybolism here, as María is a very disturbed child with brain that is experiencing frequent tiny hemorrhages. She is both bi-polar and excessively paranoid. The last thing I heard from her last night is to cry out: Mama! Mama! Tengo miedo! I also have the suspicion that she is a bit schizophrenic.

Significa que si le des a María más y más de las cosas en las que ella no puede cuidar adecuadamente, su futuro estará peor y peor.

I’ll go ahead and call this a random access entry. My procrastination over the last nine (or more) months has prevented me to gathering all of the thoughts that I shall present here into discrete entries. That, and I’m having a glass of sidra with my tortilla. See, that’s how we do things in Logroňo. Or, rather, that is the way I do things in Logroňo. I drink, eat, and blather. I used to do more of this sort of thing, yes, but much of that was actually not in Logroňo and I wasn’t drinking sidra nor eating tortilla.

That banana is about to be inserted into Bartoloměj’s anus. Yes, it is. What other result could come of such a situation? I mean, really - look at Mirka’s face! She finds the whole situation hilarious. I do, as well.

Christian and I had shipped ourselves off to České Budějovice our cozy hovels in Praha and landed unfortunately with a gaggle of exchange students (more about that later). Happily, however, we navigated from hlavní nádráží to the home of Michal’s parents. The photo was taken in their living room. Bartoloměj’s screamed punctured our dreams for weeks afterwards. At least, according to Mirka, the odor of his feces was passingly pleasant for a short while.

Michal never thought we had the ability to actually find his parents’ house. He underestimated us. I was hurt a bit. All those years I had known him and somehow he still thought I was a crappy navigator! Bastard!

Skirting around cul-de-sacs, bounding over barriers, and bearing the stares of schoolchildren shocked at our antics, we arrived. Then came Michal’s mother and the banana.

Far away from the banana and the baby is this narrow alley. It leads to an open space that becomes an arcade lined with asian fruit and vegetable shops, kebab monstrosities, elegant tourist dives perfumed with jamon serrano, clusters of tables filled with locals and tourists sipping coffee, beer or wine, and clothing markets for victorians and prostitutes alike. Were you to walk far enough and eventually turn to the left, you’d come upon the plaza in which I lived. I no longer live there. I am happy for that. Were you to take the same route during the late ours, you’d have to press your way through carousing would be vocalists and yapping college girls. At least they are all harmless. No, really.

During my first months, I was fairly enamoured with the area. I am sure I’ll still peruse it from time to time. However, as is with the very center of any city, the hulking crowds eventually fatigue me. Since I left my shotgun back in Praha, it was better to move on to a quieter part of Logroňo.

The first person I would say that I met in Logroňo was a girl named Marisa. This is the same Marisa with which I am having a relationship now. I believe it was the first day. Madis and Asun had taken me for a collosal shopping spree at Al Campo, a supermarket housed inside a shopping center in the south-west part of town. They deposited me in Plaza San Agustín, lovingly dragged my belongings and groceries up the precarious, winding stairs to the second floor, and left me to do as I like in a practically unknown portion of the earth.

So, as I usually do in situations such as this, I struck out randomly. I came across a school at one point in my paseo and saw the front was open. I walked in. There were various flyers on corkboards along with what I assumed were class schedules. Footsteps could be heard echoing distantly from my right. I recall that clearly. One of the flyers was oddly (I thought at the time) for lessons in Euskera.

I found a man behind a counter doing something that to me seemed idle and unfortunate, so I began querying him about a place I can find Spanish tutoring. After bantering back and forth for some time, he dericted me here, to which I then went.

(here)

It’s called Plus Ultra. Remember that name. It will refract happiness into your life for as long as you are not a corpse and therefore have no more life.

A very attractive young woman managed to communicate with me and summoned a not-so-attractive woman who proffered a small, yellow sheet (yes, a post-it note that I still have somewhere) on which were two phone numbers labelled Marisa and Carmen. I walked out and immediately sent Marisa a text message and, seeing that she was also one of the gleeful users of WhatsApp, the same message via it.

A reply came within minutes and I believe we arranged to meet that very evening at a bar called Ibiza. At first I thought it surely must be a famous ex-pat gathering place (don’t all European cities have one?) like The Globe in Praha. It turned out very differently.

Whilst peparing and during lunch today, the television was on in the kitchen / dining area. One can imagine that I was not in my own household, not owning a television. The news was blathering away at a tolerable volume. The story was of death. Apparently, during a futbol match in Madrid, fans of the two competing teams formed teams of their own and proceeded to beat each other senseless. The results were many injuries and one death.

Death?

Why??? Mind you, this is over a futbol match. I know people are passionate about sports, just like I am passionate about music. Many of my friends are passionate about sports (well, and music, too). We don’t go beat others who disagree with our specific preferences senseless, however.

Death?

The corpse was carted away in some sort of vehicle whilst the injured were taken to a hospital in ambulences. This all occured at the same time the match was continuing as if nothing had happened at all. Once again, I am deeply disappointed in my species. Humans prefer diversion, escapism and entertainment over the reality that seethes around them. They grease themeselves up in the lubricant of unmindfulness so anything that might wake them up just flows on by.

Fuck um.

I feel that the last months I have been slumbering. Only my dreams have kept me from falling into true nightmarish idleness. The shot of adrenalin came when I realised I must desperately leave the dreaded flat that weighed on me with its dimness. Yes, I am blaming it on the flat. Deal with it!

Many annoyances accompanied that place of residence. It lie in the middle of Logroňo’s party centre where borrachos and kurvy alike swirled like cyclones fueled by the need to exert their miniscule force upon each miniscule night. At times, noise flowed endlessly through the not so well insulated walls of that edifice into my ears as I lay in bed attempting to fall into a reverie. As one may guess, alcohol solved the problem at times, but only at times.

I did not pay rent at all this month. The fifth is the deadline. I received no message from Amador (the landlord) until late in the month. An excuse came to mind, though I don’t recall it now, and I replied with it. He seemed nonchalant about the whole deal. Good for him. I like laid back dudes. They tickle my liver with more than mere intoxication.

Now I sit at an ancient table that came with my new flat. Galictis Vittata, otherwise known as my laptop, sits between two plants named Mike and Susie. If you get the reference, you can beat yourself or the nearest male in the testicles with a razor sharp rutabaga. If you don’t get the reference, then DIE. The flat itself is ancient. I’d place it mid-Eocene. It came sparsely furnished. I have, therefore, been sleeping on a miniture, red sofa during the days I do not spend the night at Marisa’s place. My bed arrives in a few days. It is a bed remindful of the one I had with Melanie in Austin and that I generously gave to Jayson. Hm. The last time I saw that bed was when it was being stored on Craig’s balcony and rain was about to spit from the sky. Fate is a funny marmot.

Since being here, I have re-awakened. I’m no longer snoozing. The slumber has ended. I spent all but a sliver of the money that I have left yesterday on furniture and it doesn’t bother me at all. I have some wonderful cheeses in the fridge. I make tortilla practically every day. And I even created Arroz con Leche yesterday for the first time since 2002. Praise Jesus!!!

Marisa shall arrive soon to help with the completion of the assembly of my new enstantaría para libros, then we’ll head to her place for a cozy night away from the rain and bizarre untruths of the milling, faceless Logroňons.

Más luego.

Un invierno hace muchos aňos, hice un viaje el día de nochevieja, a las montaňas de la zona oeste de Republica Checa. La zona se llamaba Jeseníky. Este cuento no ex exactamente sobre mí, es sobre mi compaňero de viaje. Ěl se llamaba Christopher.

Hicimos el viaje por una de mis amigas checas. Ella tenía una cabaňa en los montaňas y me invitó allí. Me dijo que mi amigo podía venir conmigo, ya que me estaba visitando. Fuimos en tren desde Praga al pueblo cerca de la cabaňa. Tuvimos que esperar dos horas en un restaurante hasta que un coche vino a recogernos.

Como he dicho, nuestro viaje fue durante el fin de aňo y a las montaňas. Bueno, puedes creérte que las temperatura estaba bajo cero y había nieve en todos los lugares. La mayoría de la gente en la cabaňa estaba allí para esquiar. Sin embargo, Christopher y yo no esquiábamos, pero teníamos que entretenernos. Jugábamos a las cartas y fumábamos cigarillos mientras hablábamos.

Bueno, el cuento va así:

Una tarde, los esquiadores regresaron temprano por una tormenta. Todos nos sentamos juntos para jugar algo (yo no me acuerdo el tipo de juego). Al final, el juego cambió las cartas por pintas y chupitos. Algo que también aňadió alegría fue que Christopher no hablaba Checo y en ese tiempo, yo no lo hablaba muy bien. Además, solo algunos de los checos hablaban inglés.

Después de unas horas, empezé a estar cansado y me fuí a la cama de la planta de arriba, pero Christopher se quedó. Pasoron algunas horas y finalmente mi amigo regresó a nuestra habitación. Pero algo no iba bien. Todos las partes de su cuerpo tiritaban y no podía estar de pie. Al principio, pensé que él estaba borracho, pero estaba equivocado.

Escucha esto, después del juego, los checos y Christopher decidieron ir a nadar al río. Recuerda querido, que estábamos en pleno invierno. La experiencia fue demaciada intensa para él, y después de unos minutos, corrió a la cabaňa a través de la nieve sin sus zapatos. Todavía hoy, no puede tocar algunas partes de sus pies. Me sentí afortunado por irme a la cama a tiempo.

Ok, I am wating for this woman who seemes to care for me. I don’t know what to do but write, a bit.

I’d like to listen to music right now. She doesn’t at all. She called. She was missed. Of course, that is a lie, but I’ll remember it.

I’m listenening to “Time” right now… As I tread the halls of sanity. Fuck! I am with Teresa again. Stupid girl. She should have been with me.

I think she was driving. We listened to this song. Fucking Fort Stockton. She was a good girl, though possibly possessed with an absurdity by believing that West Texas was the only place in the universe. Heh. Sort of like my parents.

I called her from El Paso, months later, and she smited me. She told me she was married. I guess I was depressed at the moment, and also from her words. I died a bit at that moment. I remember. I sat down and wrote music. I’m not sure if the music was good or bad, but that was the only thing I could do. She inspired so many things.

FUCK TERESA!

That’s the way life’s meant to be.

The final dream I had this morning after a moderately restless night was about my parents. They stood in front of me, side by side. I was the one that did most of the talking / shouting.

I’ve had similar dreams in the past and they are never pleasant. I usually wake up feeling very disturbed. The sensation takes a few minutes to fade. The story is usually similar. I am ranting at them about my psychological state and how it was spawned wholly from my upbringing. Oh, and from the pit of dispair called Fort Stockton, Texas where I was forced to grow up.

Sure, it is impossible for a child to choose the place where he / she / it is raised, but the parents can give it some thought. When they have choices, this is especially the case. My parents had many choices for work before and immediately after I was adopted. They chose a shithole called Fort Stockton, Texas. See, they had both been raised in small towns in West Texas, as had their parents, grandparents, and on into infinity. So, naturally, unable to see past their own upbringing and incite a change in the firing patters of their synapses, my brother and I were stuck in another small, West Texas cage called Fort Stockton, Texas.

As I said, I was ranting at them in the dream. I blamed my inability to interact with other people socially in a normal manner on them. I blamed my paranoia that I have to keep at bay every day on them. And lastly, I blamed the constant feeling of reservation and guilt at pretty much anything I do on them. I’m not indicating actions that a well adjusted person would feel guilty for, but the residual feeling of guilt at anything I do, no matter its implication. They mostly answered with what I have heard my whole life: We raised you the best we knew how, Son.

That’s not good enough.

I have written before about all of this, but it is still not out of my system. I was kept in a virtual cage whilst I was growing up - even up to my last years in high school. My first real feeling of freedom was when I went to university in Austin.

Oh! What a feeling!

She won’t let you fly but she might let you sing. I could relate to Roger Waters’ lyrics immensely when I was in high school. I was not allowed to go out after school hours. I was huddled with a book in my bed, instead. My only social interactions were AT school. Most weekends, I was forced to go to Seminole to my grandparents’ with my mom and dad and of course I knew no-one there. I was huddled with a book in the bed there, too.

The end result was a social misfit.

They were trying to protect me from the herd. They said as much in the dream and possibly in past dreams, too. I don’t think they used those exact words in real life, however. Afraid of Fort Stockton, Texas’s culture of drugs, sex and alcohol, my parents conceptually locked me in a jail. I was given a daily vacation (during the weekdays) to go to school. Did they not expect to me to try to express myself somehow during these free times? There is no wonder I attempted to make my own way amidst the seething masses in that institution, most of whom thought I was a freak (since I never attended social events).

I don’t necessarily condone a culture of constant drugs, sex and alcohol, but I understand why it existed in putrescent Fort Stockton, Texas. What else were the children and adolescents going to do? Read a book? Heh. Most were uninterested in literature, to be honest. When there is no other stimulation, and you are not a Buddhist Monk, most like to party.

Again, lastly, the guilt. Every small misdemeanor it school landed me with, prior to high school, a beating with a belt. During high school, they landed me with severe psychological lashings. I was berated. I was made to feel like shit. I was always guilty until proven innocent.

There, there. Years have passed. I’m healing, but very slowly.

As I have stated numerous times in my handwritten journals, and under these same circumstances, I have certainly neglected this poor journal. I’d say that it won’t happen again, but that would be a blatant blight against future reality. Of course it will happen again. I am negligent. I lapse. I am just a small, cute pine marten, so what in the name of the deity mustelid’s holy tracks along the bank of the Ebro do you expect?

I begin this entry whilst waiting for 17.00 to roll around - for siesta to end on this chatter-filled Friday. I need to buy an adapter at the local electronics market that converts HDMI to a normal RGB plug. You see, Marisa has left her projector with me. It happens to be a very ancient piece of equipment that doesn’t recognize these new-fangled cables. And much to her dismay yesterday evening, we could not connect the confounded device to my ultra-modern laptop. She ended up calling her son to bring her laptop to us so we could watch the film she insisted was one of the Spanish greats. This Spanish great turned out to be a romantic comedy that was somewhat funny. My favourite genre of films is not romantic comedy, however, as most readers might assume. Hopefully I can expand her horizons movie-wise in the future.

Now I am off to get that adapter. IF they have it. If not - fuck um.

The wheels are turning beneath me again - this time towards Michal:

A hunched being sits opposite me, reminding me of a hunchbacked Viking. His hair is crookedly parted in the middle, almost falling in almost curls to his shoulders. He’s wearing a suit, and is possibly bound for a funeral in Tabor or České Budějovice (the latter being our destination).

Beside him, with a mostly erect spine, is a young Czech Chick writing message after message on her mobile phone. I’d guess she’s studying in Praha and going home to commingle with family during this fat and festering Velikonoce. Her eyes were closed in either deep contemplation or profound vacuousness and I snapped a photo. She has smiled at mine and Christián’s antics so far. Taking her to the toilet for a swift swab could be a swell(ing) idea.

The remaining occupants (besides Christián and myself) are haggard hags, and hardly merit mentioning.

Being in Praha once again is a transition for me. My time in Logroňo taught me how to be solitary - not that I needed a lesson, as I am a mustelid and all mustelids are solitary creatures (excepting those Mother Of Jesus’s Slime-Spawn otters). Praha is teaching me once again that I do need the company of others to flourish in life. I too often, when left to simply my own devices for lengths of time, begin to, as a wise man once said, drown in a pool of emotions I’ve melted down. The amusing fact is that the emotions creating the pool are unknown to me initally. They simply don’t exist. They come into being, as if from the vacuum or the quantum soup.

When I return to La Rioja on Wednesday, I’ll be a different person. I’ll pursue my days in a different manner. I’ll fill them up with more creativity. I’ll not flitter about aimless in my flat or on the streets or in cafés with two or more empty cups of café con leche in front of me.

I know I shall not achieve it, but I shall try to create something / anything every day. It is an endevour.

Fuck um. Sloní maso?

We appeared, at this height, like a spreading lichen, a ravaging bloom of algae, a mould enveloping a soft fruit - we were such a wild success. Up there with the spores!

I’m reading Solar by Ian McEwan and this quote comes from that tome. I laughingly use the term tome as the data that is the book resides on my telephone in a special format created by rodents that spend their non-waking hours clinging to the inner linings of the nostrils of yuppies.

In juxtaposition, I am passing a field of solar panels on the train as I type this. They also are spread like lichen on the field of a stone. Their point, though they take up space just as humans continue to, is to provide more life for our aching planet, as oppose to consume it greedily. It’s still quite an ideal to harvest the energy from the sun in an efficient manner, but I wear a semi-smile / semi-smirk that it is happening to any extent at all.

Now I am thinking of the contrast between the human spread in European cities, which is dense and creeping slowly, to the human spread in, for example, Texas, where natured space is transformed to human habitation in huge snatches. The progress of civilization takes enormous bites. Europeans seem to me they have more of a grip on the serenity of untouched spaces. Or, these thoughts may be spawned from my deeply rooted belief that Texans are all cunts.