Don Watson kills me with his writing. A sure, flat death. I have been reading American Journeys whilst on my own European one and I am annihilated by his book. I am at that stage of the inspiration cycle where there is no point, for moments, in writing at all, no point in responding to such a glorious death by words. I can feel that my writing self is thrilled by this inspiration and will live off such a generous chunk of sculpted reflection. But, for now, I mourn finishing his book and want to start again to be wrapped up in his voice.
Barcelona’s mix of design, thieves, designer thieves, hippies (or ‘kinkies’) or designer hippies, buskers, busking thieves and of course all of the city workers and kids like everywhere else had a funny effect of making me less interested in alternative culture, or in some of the unconsciously vain aspects of it. Gaudi’s buildings drawn into the sky dripping with layers of stone topped with fruits made sense of a new kind of chunky.
San Sebastian’s in winter huddle, which is probably a good time to visit a tourist destination. I have reached a bit of a threshold with church-visiting, but am enjoying close mountains through which to feel the history of borders and invasions, holdings and burnings.