Welcome the fuck back, Evelyn. Fucking scholarship, fucking Mother dearest, fucking all these arbitrary shits. Two more years, I can wait two more years, right? Hell. Back in America is like returning to the fucking wasteland. God, to have stayed in Spain.
Spain.
I remember the wine and the light, primarily. The way the sun shone through the bars of my father's balcony and into the glasses, jewel-like reds only seconded in vivacity by the sea itself, glittering off in the not-so-distance like a mirage of blue green--he was captivated by the water, I remember; its greenness maybe recalling himself to elsewhere. I was there, so very there, more
there than since first I set foot in Morocco, and there was something quite alike in the terracotta roofs, the tiled walls between these places. Perhaps I am only most myself (not this dismal shit of self the disgusting American seasons bring--true self, for only instants) in certain latitudes, where the sun can bake the sweat away, where the bars are open late and the night never ends, dancing as if it's always the end of the world and drinking too much only to wake clearheaded into the late-afternoon sun and do it all again.
And we did, and we did, a perfected instant of brief weeks spent utterly insensible but for moments of clarity. The strobe lights in that underground club illuminating all the bright young things outstretched; his pathetically charming (or charmingly pathetic) attempts at Spanish, endless tapas in La Linterna, that superb weed we gambled off those dirty Australian tourists, the wine and the sunlight on the sea. Always, I think , I'll come back to that, those few last afternoons as if the Holy Trinity and the light itself blessed us.
But I'm a fucking shameful disgusting sentimental shit sometimes, and he's gone the fuck off to California.
So much for that, once again.
Fuck this.
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