Last night I made Indian food at home for friends. A convivial evening. The weather has been spectacular this week. Spring storms are coming. Gulls wheeling over the Rio Gilao. The swifts are no longer screaming, they are hiding in their mud and saliva nests under the eves.
The deluge comes, polishing the cobbles. Parasols flap and drip onto miserable tourists. An inescapable torrent. I may have left the window open. I am unpacking my unhealthy, enmeshed relationship with women. I am the one… I have consistently had unhealthy relationships with women.
I am the one. Ending in dismay, disloyalty, disappointment. I could make a million excuses but I am the one. Whether it is George or Samia, rich or poor, bright or not… they open the door to their misery and like a fool, I rush in.
I wanted to save my mother. I was powerless. I lay in bed listening to the screams. I was just a boy! What could I do? Nor us. I know my brothers were terribly wounded. A famous friend is crying hard about the pressure of fame, success. She is crying because she hates talk shows, she hates the publicity grind. She is bleating and moaning, the hard rain is falling.
It is difficult to listen, knowing just how they reaped the rewards of the entertainment industry. If I believe my creative gifts are god given, yet… when the universe delivers I wonder: am I deserving? Remember that night? The night in question, that night, that great night… leaving the theatre deafened by applause, even though I had many who would have congratulated me I had no one to call.
