I don’t really know the best way to go. There were a few ideas and before I forget: bad after good after bad after good, accommodating mistrust, women alone, and I’m pretty sure I missed one. I can’t remember it for the love of me.
It’s the weekend and I’m alone. Now 2pm. I haven’t had breakfast, but my whole food routing has been messed up for a few weeks. I changed residence, as my house is getting renovated after repeated flooding. I have no time to say “someone’s renovating my house”. I now moved where my grandmother used to live. Memories mix with narratives of my family, my grandparents’ personalities, their marriage, their interests. All of the sudden I invented grandfather, he comes into the scene, a former colonel, beautiful face, dreamy eyes and sensual lips, much like a Hollywood actor from the 50s, not a disciplinarian actually, despite being a military, a very sweet guy, used to be the first to pick me up and hold me every time I cried, even though I wasn’t his favorite, my brother was, he always wanted a son, and then he only had my mother, so when my brother was born he was like “yay, finally, a son”. I think he had only chose the military because it was the way for a country boy, whose parents had sold half of their land to send only one of their fours children to high-school, the only or most obvious way to make it into the capital. He was more of a philosopher, interested in politics and history, a supporter of Gorbachev and the Perestroika, trying to change the system from within kind of guy, we used to watch tv together and the speeches in the Russian parliament, he studied mathematics in Moscow, spent some of his free time solving mathematical puzzles from the “Mathematics magazine”, he was the calmest through the divorce, while the house was very hectic, and my mother, my grandmother and my father were all sunk in the tension, but he never took it out on us; he was very upset about all that was happening nonetheless, smoked a pack a day, alone in the kitchen, silently staring out the window…I remember that silence, the smoke and his back in contre-jour; even though he had already had two heart attacks and the doctors strongly advised him to stop smoking, so he had his third and fatal one when I was 8, well almost 8, and he was almost 62 as we’re born three weeks apart. Both he and my grandmother had affairs, maybe that’s what kept their marriage going for so long.
Entertaining. I laugh. He died in the other room 26 years ago. Beauty makes you better, if you’re not holding back. The return to work by light is strange. Always a bit of a tension between times.
Spleen cliche, to be continued.