My life has been taken up lately by the focus on my 'jambe', la mia gamba, - the leg, the leg. - demanding so much energy - but it is getting better, very slowly. The cast has been cast aside. I'm walkin'. Yes, indeed. And I'm talkin' - about me and me. I'm hopin' that I'll come back to me.
That's what we always come back to, isn't it?- our little selves. In spite of the wonderful friends I love, who help me through life, and help me through all the people who are not friends, we have to know how to be alone. Speaking for myself, I have learned how to to trust myself, and keep on truckin'. So I will be back.....
And for anyone out there who reads this - if you ever come across a short film about a day in the life of a bike, with the soundtrack of the Dead's "Truckin" - please let me know. I made it a thousand years ago with some other students, and then lost track of it. I'd love to find it again.
I've been doing some retro-reading in my quiet, healing moments - besides the books I was given by my dear book-publisher friend - I'm also going back into my own archives of stories and poems, or simply journal entries that I wrote over the years.I must say, a part of me loves to revisit those creations, and see the things I saw at another stage of my life. One piece, however, written shortly after the death of someone I knew, really got to me. At the time, I was so utterly saddened, - shocked, even as I wrote - at how very sad I was, especially since we had been separated already for a while. The death affected me so much, so immediately and deeply, that I couldn't understand it. When I read what I'd written back then, the rawness of the loss I had felt came back in full force so that a huge wave of grief swept over me, choking me. I was taken aback - literally, - reliving that pain and once again, shocked by my feelings.
All in the plan of getting my writings organized. I once had a dream about finding huge piles of diaries that my mother had written during her life, and I was so surprised, and delighted, to find this treasure trove of her. In real life, in fact, my mother never wrote, nor spoke, anything about herself. She kept her feelings and her thoughts - her self - quiet. And unknown. I've always missed having shared a real relationship with her. And when I awoke, I knew that it was myself who had the mountains of words.
So....project one: leg; two: music; three: languages; and four: (making a stable table) - my writing.
I'm glad I read that sad piece, to have my heart re-opened. Glad I have kept it.
Here's a photo of myself and my cousin Michelle in old Montreal last weekend. oo la la.
plus the inevitable selfie, and one with a weird effect that i liked: