High winds snapped a large branch of the Brazilian tipuana at the back of the garden. The amputated branch is too green for firewood, but I shall have it cut up and carted away.
Writing and rewriting, the pattern of my days. Sometimes I wish I worked in a library or ice cream parlour. This from author Lee Montgomery:
And then if you’re a writer as well, you’re taking away from that. It’s a struggle–it really is a struggle that I deal with frequently. Most people who write need to work on some level. You hear people who teach whine that it destroys their work. I just don’t know there’s a good way to support yourself as a writer. I mean, perhaps the best way is to work as a florist, and then write…to be able to focus all your energies [on writing]. It’s something I really battle with quite a bit.
Listening to Scarlatti sonatas as I work. The Italian contemporary of Bach and Handel but more Baroque. He spent much of his life under musical patronage in Seville and Madrid and echoes of flamenco run through his work, something sensual and flamboyant that makes me want to get up and twirl around while snapping my fingers from time to time. I bet he could toss up a decent paella too.
The daughter — shall I call her Cybille? — of one of my neighbours is drinking very heavily and her elderly parents are ‘helping out’. They are looking after her cats. And paying her rent. And her medical bills. And will give her a new car for Christmas, to replace the dented and bumped formerly new car she bought last year. She has a high-paying job in finance but never has any money. I realised the other day that I think of Cybille as doe-eyed, sulky and very young, a moody juvenile with identity issues. But she had a [disastrous] 40th birthday recently and the reason I think of her as adolescent is because that is how her parents speak of her. They prefer not to face the fact that she has long passed the age of leaving home.
Looking forward to the first posts from San Antonio. Travel safely and whoop it up, people!