I fear that reality is getting a grip on my life and I might never submerge myself into the warm golden depths of artistic pursuits ever again. I am trapped in my bed, the fourth day of flu taking its toll.
It has been almost 3 weeks since I arranged pieces of tile , moving each a little at a time for my new animation. The hundreds of photos already edited and put into sequence.
The almost 3 weeks feels like an eternity. First we had snow, which was fun to begin with. We made a wooden sledge out of an old chair, but it was too heavy and sank into the snow. It was better on the well worn track on the hill above the village, but soon sapped our energy lugging it back up. The camping mat once again turned out the favourable vehicle.
My youngest son was ill and missed the fun, several days passed and I had to attempt to drive him to the doctor. Skidding and sliding down the hill, with the steepest part of the hill yet to come I decided to abandon ship, the car isn’t built for snow. We left it in a ditch, and a man driving a truck that he said was built for these conditions gave us a lift home.
The doctor told me they weren’t able to get any medicine to my son because if we couldn’t get down they couldn’t get up. My partner suggested we try to take his car (still not built for snow but smaller and with a snow button installed) up the hill instead of down, and together we saved the day by buying some food and getting the medicine for our boy.
Christmas day was a few days off, and we didn’t have a tree, and we were now definitely stranded. The snow on the road was like a toboggan run, smooth and frozen. I cut some branches from one of the overgrown spruces that overlooks the dining room. They were arranged in a bucket several times, only to plummet to the floor several times. Once they were finally restrained and trussed up with fairy lights and tinsel, they were still antagonistic. The branches became one and groaned in resignation, but unyielding to our celebration of winter, became a dark monster in the recess of the room.
My abandoned car was vandalised. We walked down three times and each time there was a bit more damage, first the wing mirror was broken, then the number plate was ripped off and finally (before we managed to rescue it and bring it home) the back window was smashed. Surprising to think that it was parked in a quiet spot, on a rural road surrounded by farmland and flanked in the valley by two pretty villages to the North and South.
I have just finished reading “The Angel’s Game” by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, author of “The Shadow of the Wind”, both books set in my favourite city, Barcelona.
I couldn’t read on the second day of this flu, my head hurt so much I was afraid I had the tumor that David Martin had in the story. Zafon’s poetic words seep into my pores and bring out little tingles on my skin, while deep down as his story becomes thicker and more mysterious, creepy and gothic, it pulls me into the dark abyss where all is not what it seems, where good meets evil, where angels become demons and where light becomes dark.
A curious and positive ending to the story helps to lift my spirits a little. Perhaps there is light at the end of the tunnel.