The Times

A friend has put up a photo of him cuddling his little black kitten, with a blissful expression on its face that reminded me of our boy. It has been nearly 3 months, I should change my photos on FB to help me move on. Just not yet. Gad, I just do not get over stuff. I'm not over the death of Surya and that was in 2021. Talk about maudlin! I need imagery around to cheer me and get me working, because this should be a busy winter.

Meanwhile shrooms continue to proliferate in the garden. My plant apps vaguely identify one large patch as candy caps or curry caps and for sure they do that whole latex milky thing when squeezed but the identifying smell is just pleasant, neither candy nor curry. Apparently it becomes more distinct when it dries, or you can burn a bit of it to find out. So I picked some out of the garden but right now it is too wet to set alight. I know exactly how it feels.

Going to try it, see if it helps. Everything is a bit off. There is so much for me to do, but I seem unable to put my mind to anything. Was it a fortnight ago I was tromping between central Granada and Zaidin in the heat? Mum was hard work and so were the circumstances, but in physical terms it was easy. Now I am inevitably sleepy, my walks feel harder, perhaps I am a bit depressed. Is it the lack of light? Maybe that's it.

But there is stuff that needs doing and I must wake up.

It won't be long before I return to Granada, and it suddenly occurs to me that whenever I go, I never go into the mountains, I don't even go to Sacromonte, because my family used to have conniptions at the idea of me anywhere near the caves and the Roma. I wrote this poem about it;

THE SACROMONTE VALENTINE
Sacromonte, Sacromonte
Don’t take your purse or phone,
take cash in your pockets
And don’t go by yourself.
But the poet won’t listen
She is full of red wine
and all she hears are footsteps
footsteps to Sacromonte

Sacromonte, Sacromonte
her hands unfurl stories
bird bright, reptile supple,
taut as a new drumskin
Her feet move and shout
and others move too
Wood and wineskins keep time
in the smoke of Sacromonte

Sacromonte, Sacromonte,
His smile is a bullet
She screams and is woken
with laughter and coffee.
In Sacromonte she dreamed
of Lorca the poet.
Where is she now that
she dreams of Sacromonte?

Garcia Lorca did not die in Sacromonte. My dreaming of the above came perhaps from his reputation as 'the gypsy poet' though he wasn't a gypsy. It is thought that he was shot by Nationalist forces near Viznar, but no-one is sure. Motives were plenty; he was socialist, he was gay, he was controversial, but on the other hand, he had friends on all sides. Some claim there was a personal vendetta beneath the politics, a score settled. Excavations continue trying to find his remains.


Then I realized I had been murdered.
They looked for me in cafes, cemeteries and churches
.... but they did not find me.
They never found me?
No. They never found me.
- The Fable and Round of the Three Friends",
Poet in New York (1929), García Lorca.

Why did he matter to me? His poetry was beautiful, but more than that, he helped me to understand Duende.

All that has dark sounds has duende. And there is no greater truth.... These dark sounds are the mystery, the roots pushing into the soil which we all know, which we all ignore, but from which comes what is real in art. - Theory and Function of the Duende, Lorca

I do not think depth and struggle and rawness are the only powers birthing the real in art. But I can feel what he means. And on days like this it's good to accept the gift, to accept that however stupid things have been, I know Duende. While it would comfort many to find where he was buried, a part of me resists. After all, if no-one knows where he is then he could be anywhere which puts him everywhere.

Dream well Federico.

Our new system does everything short of handcuffing intruders and taking them to jail. I'm terrified of it, in case I forget to click something or turn something on/off and suddenly find myself in a cloud of impenetrable smoke surrounded by screaming sirens. Overkill perhaps, but I'm definitely going to feel safer when R is away from home.

This is a fat bunny neighbourhood, lots of good cars and tidy lawns, the sort of place a professional thief would find interesting. Across and beside us are folk with dogs, so it's time to join them in looking like too much trouble. Nothing will keep a burglar out if they mean it, but most want an easy mark, so...

Now I'm getting endless notifications of people and cars passing by, the angle of the house front makes this difficult to avoid. I guess it's the point.

A big troublesome chunk of paperwork sorted out, now I have time to help friend's daughter. If only I didn't feel so bleary! How strange this Autumn is. It took ages to really get going and now it's dark, like Winter is right on the doorstep. I shouldn't wish October away, the leaves are very beautiful this year, but I have magically turned into a dormouse, doing little beyond drinking tea and sleeping.