It's 2 am and I'm not sleeping. Luckily Rosa isn't playing her English pop music tonight. I'm burning incense because they are smoking in the bar downstairs. I don't know where Sherie is. She must be working. She always goes and works in the wee hours of the morning.
The other morning I went upstairs to find a bucket to do my handwashing. Rosa was making a guiso and had it cooking on the stove. So she came over and started talking to me all about her children. I was a captive listener for a while. It was a Spanish kind of morning. Light was coming in through the skylight, into her hovel of a kitchen up there. She seemed happy and chatted away about her son Eduardo and about Jose his friend, (the two owners of the bar), and how they both used to love weight lifting (the stew was for them... they need it, she said. If she didn't feed them, they'd just eat montaditos). Jose gave it up, but Eduardo, despite his age (about 50) still lifts weights. He has an earring in one ear and kind of a brush cut. They both are really nice guys. I can't be upset at them too much for renting out such a hovel, because they probably don't see it that way; the state of it is probably something they would be totally happy living in. Eduardo's mother is, anyways. She does his laundry too.
She has a daughter, married with several small children. The daughter has a black belt and teaches Judo. She joined the volunteer police force, and Rosa mentioned how she had to go do these kind of obstacle courses in the countryside. She also wanted to go as a peacekeeper to some country where they were always bombing things, back about 10 years ago, somewhere in the middle east or Africa. I did not recognise the name, despite her saying it several times. A female friend went, but her father didn't want her to. I guess Rosa must be divorced... though that seems highly unlikely for a woman of around 75 - 80, in Spain. Perhaps it was some other kind of father, or maybe she refers to her husband that way. The daughter has also done all kinds of fairly high end waiting of tables. Now, however, she works at the airport, in what capacity I couldn't decipher or rather, Rosa didn't make clear, though she does get up at 4 am to go there. Rosa occasionally goes to cover a gap in the day when neither her daughter or son in law can be there for the kids.
Today I sat in Plaza San Lorenzo. It is the best place in all of Sevilla. It was 3:30 and Wednesday so the Sardinero (bar) wasn't open. Neither were the two churches, and a lady stopped to ask me whether I knew if they were open. She told me she never could remember either what day they were closed, though she had been coming there for years. She was really lovely. She told me she was 86, and her father had been a doctor, so she knew to use olive oil to keep her skin young. She pointed to her chest and arms, and indeed, her chest was surprisingly wrinkle free, though her face told her age. She had the most incredible straight posture, and something in her manner like a young girl. It sounded like she said she would get cookies thrown at her if she crossed the plaza. That was probably a hole in my Spanish understanding, which is otherwise pretty awesome these days. "Pegado por tortas", she said laughing, several times, pointing in the direction of the bakery on the corner.
I realised when I visited Marta and Alicia that my listening skills had increased a lot just during August, living in Lebrija. I didn't use English at all the whole month, except to write it on the internet. I understood pretty much everything Marta told me about her adventures in a rather experimental orchestra psychological project, even though she talked fast. In an attempt to increase the connection between members of the orchestra, they did stuff almost like therapy, trust games and so on, with an international group, some of whom didn't have a language in common to explain to each other what they liked most about themselves or such things.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Sevilla is an impossible place. Tonight I could not believe that it exists. I can't imagine a city more beautiful. But not just because of its looks; it still has character and culture. I went down by the river after doing work stuff, and before dinner. All the 18 year old boys were practicing their trumpets and other instruments for their Semana Santa bands. The feeling hearing that music gives me, so far away from the event, is almost too intense. It's culture shock. Everything else has become normal to me most of the time, but to see hordes of cool looking guys between 17 and 23 or so spending their evenings playing religious music, practicing 10 months of the year round is just too foreign.
Calle Sol cuts a diagonal across a large stretch of the area between the train station and San Luis/Feria. Halfway up it, 5 streets meet in a haphazard way, at a church. One corner has a multifaceted building, which isn't really plumb with gravity, perpendicular to the ground. The "Bar Uno de San Roman", which has a parrot in a cage just inside the door, is just off the corner. There is an azulejo (tile) set into the wall outside the door that says Manolo Caracol sang there, the day he died, if I understand correctly. There are pictures of bullfights and flamenco singers covering the walls inside. On two facets of the corner, there is the shop Antonio Rodriguez, who specialises in Capirotes and stuff for costaleros (the KKK tall pointy-type hats for Semana Santa), and other Semana Santa things.
The other people who live in this residence may have trouble getting their bearings. They probably will be quite confused when they reach home and don't find their door. I cleaned it - twice. It still is not what one could really call clean, but it has shiny green paint now, and confounded me the first time I came back.
Sachiko just got back from Minneapolis, well via Lebrija. She came up from there after just getting there the day before yesterday. We had lunch at the Chinese place, and managed to order rice with great difficulty in Spanish, when I could have just said, "Dai women liang wan fan." Thank goodness for friends who are more sane than me. Thank you Sachiko.
By the way, Manolo Caracol is a flamenco singer with a very beautiful voice. Highly recommended to search on youtube if you have any interest.
Today I realised I cannot imagine life without siesta. Life with business that continues relentlessly on past lunch. Que barbaridad! One cannot live like that.
The other people who live in this residence may have trouble getting their bearings. They probably will be quite confused when they reach home and don't find their door. I cleaned it - twice. It still is not what one could really call clean, but it has shiny green paint now, and confounded me the first time I came back.
Sachiko just got back from Minneapolis, well via Lebrija. She came up from there after just getting there the day before yesterday. We had lunch at the Chinese place, and managed to order rice with great difficulty in Spanish, when I could have just said, "Dai women liang wan fan." Thank goodness for friends who are more sane than me. Thank you Sachiko.
By the way, Manolo Caracol is a flamenco singer with a very beautiful voice. Highly recommended to search on youtube if you have any interest.
Today I realised I cannot imagine life without siesta. Life with business that continues relentlessly on past lunch. Que barbaridad! One cannot live like that.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Potato chips and cheap wine. There is only one choice of potato chips - plain - but they are better than the ones we get at home. Well, there is also Jamon flavour. Since I got my olive oil back I've been happier. Today I managed to cook my usual rice mash-up dish, so I feel healthier. But it is Sunday, so I couldn't get any oats for breakfast tomorrow.
The night before last, Sheri and I were up till about 3 am looking at flamenco on youtube. Last night we went to Pena Torres Macarena. She had met the director in the studios at Calle Castellar. He was singing and she painted him. He invited her to the pena and it was her first time going to one. We got there early and sat beside Diego while he started to sing, and the guitarist I've seen before there. It was totally unlike other Saturday nights I've been to. There was a big group later on and it went quite late. Pena means club, and everybody is members. For a night like this, it is just the members of the club hanging out singing together. They really took us in this time; they assumed we were dancers, but that we also sang, and kept asking us to do both. Most of them were older (older than 55), though there was one guitarist our age and one or two couples, then later on some young people. We didn't dance, as Sheri shared my thought - we would rather respect their art and not flounce around like a pair of daft, show-offy foreigners. But it became obvious part way through that they genuinely wanted us to participate. We promised them that next time we would, and let the older ladies do the dancing.
I was happy to share this with a friend who really appreciates it, and again was in awe of this culture I am in. This form of singing where they pour out their soul like no other kind of music - where that is the main requirement and it comes before technique, or even being in tune. Luckily at this pena, they have adequate technique as well.
I felt listening that I never want to leave here. I never want to leave a place where people understand when things are genuine and when they come straight from the heart. It is not easy for them either. Some of them say they are nervous, or look like they might be. But it is an accepted thing to do - to pour the deepest pain of your soul in a beautiful way.
I watched people of Spanish background on facebook the other day say things that sounded really harsh in English; they were insulting. And then I watched the conversation turn until they ended up agreeing to hang out and have a bottle of wine together and discuss the subject. It could have partly been the person responding to the insult, but it was partly cultural, I think, that the offense taken was less. All I know is that feelings are more acceptable here.
The night before last, Sheri and I were up till about 3 am looking at flamenco on youtube. Last night we went to Pena Torres Macarena. She had met the director in the studios at Calle Castellar. He was singing and she painted him. He invited her to the pena and it was her first time going to one. We got there early and sat beside Diego while he started to sing, and the guitarist I've seen before there. It was totally unlike other Saturday nights I've been to. There was a big group later on and it went quite late. Pena means club, and everybody is members. For a night like this, it is just the members of the club hanging out singing together. They really took us in this time; they assumed we were dancers, but that we also sang, and kept asking us to do both. Most of them were older (older than 55), though there was one guitarist our age and one or two couples, then later on some young people. We didn't dance, as Sheri shared my thought - we would rather respect their art and not flounce around like a pair of daft, show-offy foreigners. But it became obvious part way through that they genuinely wanted us to participate. We promised them that next time we would, and let the older ladies do the dancing.
I was happy to share this with a friend who really appreciates it, and again was in awe of this culture I am in. This form of singing where they pour out their soul like no other kind of music - where that is the main requirement and it comes before technique, or even being in tune. Luckily at this pena, they have adequate technique as well.
I felt listening that I never want to leave here. I never want to leave a place where people understand when things are genuine and when they come straight from the heart. It is not easy for them either. Some of them say they are nervous, or look like they might be. But it is an accepted thing to do - to pour the deepest pain of your soul in a beautiful way.
I watched people of Spanish background on facebook the other day say things that sounded really harsh in English; they were insulting. And then I watched the conversation turn until they ended up agreeing to hang out and have a bottle of wine together and discuss the subject. It could have partly been the person responding to the insult, but it was partly cultural, I think, that the offense taken was less. All I know is that feelings are more acceptable here.
I am living in the kind of place that traumatised my mother as a child so that she has been quite a keen cleaner all her life...
If I were to have to describe the colloquial terms "dive", "hole", "pigsty" to an alien, I might show them this place. The other people that live here don't seem to find that it affects their state of mind that much, although Sheri admitted that it did, once she noticed. What I admire about some people is that they are just too busy being utterly passionate about their biggest dreams in life, that two non-functioning clotheswashers, three revolting fridges (and more upstairs), grimy black-with-oil light switches, a moldy bathroom with a leaking shower, a storage room full of junk, with no door, behind the kitchen, random things dangling from the ceiling that were once nice in the 80s or when they weren't broken... don't really register.
It was a little difficult looking for a place during August, living in Lebrija. But in the end, the real problem was that I didn't want to promise some really nice fellow roommates that I'd stay for 3 months, and then find a job in another city, decide to go work on a farm, or go home. This was one of the few places I knew without going to major trouble, where staying for a month at a time was possible.
I feel that I have it pretty good with men noticing me, but I'm nowhere near Sheri's abilities in that field. She's turned down 13 guys since she got here. I think a couple of months. But going out the door of our apartment the other day, a really guapo guy caught her eye, and then he saw the door. She could tell he noticed it. Who wouldn't? It must be the dirtiest door on Calle Sol. I cleaned it halfway today. Anyways, I think I'm not going to clean much more, cause I'm here for the same goal as Sheri, really. To obtain a state of mind like Antonio Gades in the poster she showed me.
For years I have had a vague image of living on very little, in circumstances that others would perhaps not choose. Since I was a teenager I have badly wanted to put my mental and emotional energy towards some pursuit with passion, and possibly for a living. To that end I have for a long time thought that if it were necessary, I'd rather do without, if my spirit and soul could be satisfied. They certainly haven't been anywhere even remotely close to that, really ever. I suppose it is the typical artist thing. I do not believe that one "must" live poorly to be an artist, just that it often happens to be necessary.
Sheri considers nutrition extremely important and spent some time explaining that she thought is was a big problem in the flamenco world - that any aspect of the art (not just dancing) requires an enormous amount of energy due to the emotional intensity. In the past, along with the lifestyle in which flamenco began (a lifestyle from a different era, when people lived close together, had less things but of better quality) they had better food. We all had better food in the past, because it was picked closer to the time of eating, or was not grown in nutrient poor soil fertilised by simple chemical fertilisers, and thus, gave our bodies what they craved. She maintains this could even be a part of why the gitanos do drugs. They eat white flour spaghetti with ketchup and hot dogs, and then try to expend a massive amount of energy singing or dancing, so they need cocaine. Sheri doesn't have a centimo until she gets paid on Thursday. But she eats brown rice, quinoa, carrots, and no junk food. She spends an unbelievable E20 per week.
I do not know if I will continue to live like this. I certainly do not plan to continue living in this hovel. But if it suits my life's best direction, perhaps I can learn to do with very little. It has seemed depressing and scary to me to think about "depriving" myself of certain luxuries like having coffee or a glass of wine in a cafe, and I have struggled with that the entire time I've been here because my budget really doesn't include much for it. Up till now, I've felt that it is better to let myself do it, within reason, so as not to put myself in a depressing state of feeling deprived. But at this point, I can't afford it. There isn't anything very difficult about it, as long as the people you hang out with are doing the same. Without knowing that someone else in my house is doing the same thing, that we can hang out together sometimes in the evening, it would be impossible. Everything really depends on people. During the day Sheri is either at her studio painting, at flamenco classes, or else sitting in the lobby of a beautiful hotel reading (in order not to hang out here). This is the biggest thing that attracted me to China initially, despite its "ugliness" (all the bad things about it): the people are together laughing and living life as fully as they can, having dinner together in their shop full of rubber pipes or soffiting or toilet seats, or sitting on a dirty street together selling barbequed vegetables, with huge smiles.
Despite the grime, the struggle against a poverty complex and mindset that I'm not going to make it, this is better than being alone in my nice apartment on Main and 48th, and stuck in a job that suffocates me.
If I were to have to describe the colloquial terms "dive", "hole", "pigsty" to an alien, I might show them this place. The other people that live here don't seem to find that it affects their state of mind that much, although Sheri admitted that it did, once she noticed. What I admire about some people is that they are just too busy being utterly passionate about their biggest dreams in life, that two non-functioning clotheswashers, three revolting fridges (and more upstairs), grimy black-with-oil light switches, a moldy bathroom with a leaking shower, a storage room full of junk, with no door, behind the kitchen, random things dangling from the ceiling that were once nice in the 80s or when they weren't broken... don't really register.
It was a little difficult looking for a place during August, living in Lebrija. But in the end, the real problem was that I didn't want to promise some really nice fellow roommates that I'd stay for 3 months, and then find a job in another city, decide to go work on a farm, or go home. This was one of the few places I knew without going to major trouble, where staying for a month at a time was possible.
I feel that I have it pretty good with men noticing me, but I'm nowhere near Sheri's abilities in that field. She's turned down 13 guys since she got here. I think a couple of months. But going out the door of our apartment the other day, a really guapo guy caught her eye, and then he saw the door. She could tell he noticed it. Who wouldn't? It must be the dirtiest door on Calle Sol. I cleaned it halfway today. Anyways, I think I'm not going to clean much more, cause I'm here for the same goal as Sheri, really. To obtain a state of mind like Antonio Gades in the poster she showed me.
For years I have had a vague image of living on very little, in circumstances that others would perhaps not choose. Since I was a teenager I have badly wanted to put my mental and emotional energy towards some pursuit with passion, and possibly for a living. To that end I have for a long time thought that if it were necessary, I'd rather do without, if my spirit and soul could be satisfied. They certainly haven't been anywhere even remotely close to that, really ever. I suppose it is the typical artist thing. I do not believe that one "must" live poorly to be an artist, just that it often happens to be necessary.
Sheri considers nutrition extremely important and spent some time explaining that she thought is was a big problem in the flamenco world - that any aspect of the art (not just dancing) requires an enormous amount of energy due to the emotional intensity. In the past, along with the lifestyle in which flamenco began (a lifestyle from a different era, when people lived close together, had less things but of better quality) they had better food. We all had better food in the past, because it was picked closer to the time of eating, or was not grown in nutrient poor soil fertilised by simple chemical fertilisers, and thus, gave our bodies what they craved. She maintains this could even be a part of why the gitanos do drugs. They eat white flour spaghetti with ketchup and hot dogs, and then try to expend a massive amount of energy singing or dancing, so they need cocaine. Sheri doesn't have a centimo until she gets paid on Thursday. But she eats brown rice, quinoa, carrots, and no junk food. She spends an unbelievable E20 per week.
I do not know if I will continue to live like this. I certainly do not plan to continue living in this hovel. But if it suits my life's best direction, perhaps I can learn to do with very little. It has seemed depressing and scary to me to think about "depriving" myself of certain luxuries like having coffee or a glass of wine in a cafe, and I have struggled with that the entire time I've been here because my budget really doesn't include much for it. Up till now, I've felt that it is better to let myself do it, within reason, so as not to put myself in a depressing state of feeling deprived. But at this point, I can't afford it. There isn't anything very difficult about it, as long as the people you hang out with are doing the same. Without knowing that someone else in my house is doing the same thing, that we can hang out together sometimes in the evening, it would be impossible. Everything really depends on people. During the day Sheri is either at her studio painting, at flamenco classes, or else sitting in the lobby of a beautiful hotel reading (in order not to hang out here). This is the biggest thing that attracted me to China initially, despite its "ugliness" (all the bad things about it): the people are together laughing and living life as fully as they can, having dinner together in their shop full of rubber pipes or soffiting or toilet seats, or sitting on a dirty street together selling barbequed vegetables, with huge smiles.
Despite the grime, the struggle against a poverty complex and mindset that I'm not going to make it, this is better than being alone in my nice apartment on Main and 48th, and stuck in a job that suffocates me.
Friday, September 2, 2011
flamenco ghetto
bells just rang for 9:00, there is no more light coming from the skylight. canned seafood is bad; including tuna sometimes. I got my stuff from Alicia and Marta's place. the two most important things were olive oil and laundry soap. I laundered the bedcover and the lump of kitchen towels that kept getting shifted from chair to chair. I was sure the bedcover hadn't been washed for a while cause nothing else in this place has. I have to be careful not to burn the frying peppers. I got home from practicing (and immediately before that, from Alicia and Marta's, with my emptied out suitcase now full of food goods and random items that had been left there during August), and put stuff in the laundry, handwashed my silk scarf that I threw around my neck during practice cause i only had on a tank top (you learn dancing to wear lots of clothes even in the heat), and a top that got thrown back on after dancing, after wiping myself with a stinky cloth from which I cleaned my feet from dirty shoes soaked by rain. the top already stunk from walking around with too many clothes put on for the rain, and then suddenly sun, while carrying a suitcase - a cat suddenly ran past me. the peppers are now charred, how they are supposed to be, but one side is left to be done.
downstairs in the bar they are listening to a futbol game, obviously. I should be out but i needed to eat.
I have not yet paid Jose, who seems like a very nice person, but whose apartments are like main and hastings slum apartments. I didn't quite realise it when I took a quick look. They have a cuteness about them... it is for flamenco dancers only. Yesterday I posted this on facebook and Michael commented that it was a flamenco ghetto - romantic but smelly. He was right on on both counts.
Though the smell is the mold in the bathroom.
The cat smelled my tuna and got in from a window at the side that's connected to some random space in the apartment beside. All the roof tops are so close, and the balcony could also be reached from parts of other buildings.
Oh yeah... fried peppers. What I need now is lomo and jamon and bread. Which would be a certain kind of sandwich I forget the name of. (roast pork, ham and charred pepper).
An Italian surgeon that lives in Paris just left today. She was here for two weeks studying at Taller, the touristy flamenco place that some other friends have been to. There is a very sweet but very focussed seeming Japanese girl upstairs, as well as Jose's mother, Rosa. On my floor now there is only Sheri, who speaks English because she's from San Fransisco but is Persian and has spent 10 years in Italy so speaks Italian too.
Unfortunately I can't open the bottle of wine Sachiko gave me for my birthday the night before we all left to go other places, because there is no corkscrew in this apartment, in the kitchen on my floor or the one upstairs. There are countless (dirty) refrigerators and at least three clothes washing machines, only one of which works.
Today I realised that I am extremely dysfunctional. I am obsessive. About following my intuition in hopes that it will lead me somewhere better than where I am. In hopes that it will magically change my life, will rescue me from what I don't like about my life.
Overall, things are good because Sheri is really cool. I will go pay Jose for the rent (2 days late) and we are going to scrub the bathroom mold. Oh, and Rosa is really sweet. But it's a bit sad for me because she lives on the 3rd floor with really steep steps. Both days now she's said in an extremely cheery voice that she's going to go out for a "vueltacita" (a turn around the neighborhood - she is diminutizing the word vuelta) around 8:00 in the evening, so I've helped her down the stairs. She must be about 80, and has sciatica.
I've suddenly found out I am in the right place.
downstairs in the bar they are listening to a futbol game, obviously. I should be out but i needed to eat.
I have not yet paid Jose, who seems like a very nice person, but whose apartments are like main and hastings slum apartments. I didn't quite realise it when I took a quick look. They have a cuteness about them... it is for flamenco dancers only. Yesterday I posted this on facebook and Michael commented that it was a flamenco ghetto - romantic but smelly. He was right on on both counts.
Though the smell is the mold in the bathroom.
The cat smelled my tuna and got in from a window at the side that's connected to some random space in the apartment beside. All the roof tops are so close, and the balcony could also be reached from parts of other buildings.
Oh yeah... fried peppers. What I need now is lomo and jamon and bread. Which would be a certain kind of sandwich I forget the name of. (roast pork, ham and charred pepper).
An Italian surgeon that lives in Paris just left today. She was here for two weeks studying at Taller, the touristy flamenco place that some other friends have been to. There is a very sweet but very focussed seeming Japanese girl upstairs, as well as Jose's mother, Rosa. On my floor now there is only Sheri, who speaks English because she's from San Fransisco but is Persian and has spent 10 years in Italy so speaks Italian too.
Unfortunately I can't open the bottle of wine Sachiko gave me for my birthday the night before we all left to go other places, because there is no corkscrew in this apartment, in the kitchen on my floor or the one upstairs. There are countless (dirty) refrigerators and at least three clothes washing machines, only one of which works.
Today I realised that I am extremely dysfunctional. I am obsessive. About following my intuition in hopes that it will lead me somewhere better than where I am. In hopes that it will magically change my life, will rescue me from what I don't like about my life.
Overall, things are good because Sheri is really cool. I will go pay Jose for the rent (2 days late) and we are going to scrub the bathroom mold. Oh, and Rosa is really sweet. But it's a bit sad for me because she lives on the 3rd floor with really steep steps. Both days now she's said in an extremely cheery voice that she's going to go out for a "vueltacita" (a turn around the neighborhood - she is diminutizing the word vuelta) around 8:00 in the evening, so I've helped her down the stairs. She must be about 80, and has sciatica.
I've suddenly found out I am in the right place.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
One day 6 years ago I came out of work and sat on the steps. I had a thought that I might lose my job and my boyfriend, or was it my house and my boyfriend. I don't know why I had that thought, but it terrified me.
Then it happened.
I should not be afraid of all that much any more. I am afraid of less now.
Now I am not thinking I am going to lose anything in the near future. It's not really loss I'm talking about - it's clearing things out of the way so you can see what is really inside; or clearing things out of the way that you think you want or need but don't.
Today I came to Sevilla and I cried. Everything is so uncertain and has been that way for 8 months, or longer. At least the sky was dark and with clouds moving fast, and it rained. Something tells me that I am still doing the right thing. That only now that I've spent pretty much all my money, will things start to happen.
I think perhaps what I have done may not have been sensible, or the best choice. That is beside the point, because it was my choice. I have an image of myself as someone in control. The people that know me appear to have an image of me, when they praise me. I don't like either of these images and they are not me.
I am the girl who is lost like someone treading water in the middle of the ocean. I am the girl who had thousands of dollars and spent it doing nearly nothing in Spain, and ended up with no magical light dawning and showing her what direction to go. I am a person who goes around utterly terrified, playing a guessing game about what "the right answer" is, that some kind of intuition or spirit should show me, but my heart is so closed, and I am so terrified of people, that I cannot follow my own real desires, let alone some grandiose thing that makes magic happen. I am a very weak and lonely child that is utterly desperate for genuine warmth. I like these images because they are my reality and the other is only what people like to see.
I am remembering now what Ben said: certain money that was made in a certain way maybe will not benefit you unless it is spent in a certain way. The money was due to trying to live a life I didn't want, that I knew from the start wasn't right. It was due to fear. I could not spend it trying to build up my life in the material sense, or even in other senses approved by the rational mind. All of that has had to be undone first. I've known for years that I have not been ready and may only be beginning now, to be in the position to want or to earn a stable life with worldly trappings. All of that is ugly to me if I am living in fear, doing work that suppresses me.
Then it happened.
I should not be afraid of all that much any more. I am afraid of less now.
Now I am not thinking I am going to lose anything in the near future. It's not really loss I'm talking about - it's clearing things out of the way so you can see what is really inside; or clearing things out of the way that you think you want or need but don't.
Today I came to Sevilla and I cried. Everything is so uncertain and has been that way for 8 months, or longer. At least the sky was dark and with clouds moving fast, and it rained. Something tells me that I am still doing the right thing. That only now that I've spent pretty much all my money, will things start to happen.
I think perhaps what I have done may not have been sensible, or the best choice. That is beside the point, because it was my choice. I have an image of myself as someone in control. The people that know me appear to have an image of me, when they praise me. I don't like either of these images and they are not me.
I am the girl who is lost like someone treading water in the middle of the ocean. I am the girl who had thousands of dollars and spent it doing nearly nothing in Spain, and ended up with no magical light dawning and showing her what direction to go. I am a person who goes around utterly terrified, playing a guessing game about what "the right answer" is, that some kind of intuition or spirit should show me, but my heart is so closed, and I am so terrified of people, that I cannot follow my own real desires, let alone some grandiose thing that makes magic happen. I am a very weak and lonely child that is utterly desperate for genuine warmth. I like these images because they are my reality and the other is only what people like to see.
I am remembering now what Ben said: certain money that was made in a certain way maybe will not benefit you unless it is spent in a certain way. The money was due to trying to live a life I didn't want, that I knew from the start wasn't right. It was due to fear. I could not spend it trying to build up my life in the material sense, or even in other senses approved by the rational mind. All of that has had to be undone first. I've known for years that I have not been ready and may only be beginning now, to be in the position to want or to earn a stable life with worldly trappings. All of that is ugly to me if I am living in fear, doing work that suppresses me.
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