Thursday, September 29, 2005: 10:04
My Dad called me.
My Dad is so wonderful. Right now what seems best to me is for him to retire and then for the two of us to move somewhere remote into a little shack and to fish, sleep and read short stories for many years. Perhaps a lightly wooded area about half an hours hike to a beach where waves crash against big jagged rocks and it would be dangerous for anyone but good swimmers to swim. But there would be a sort of bay where the water was calm, protected from the waves by a buttress of rocks, and warmer, the lesser body of water being more easily influenced by the sun then the sea.
If you were to only see the landscape in the near vicinity of this small dwelling, one would think it was in Britain, but it isn’t. It is in Portugal, and the closest populous would speak mostly Arabic. Despite my best efforts I would never learn Arabic or Portuguese, understanding both their grammer and syntax but failing to hold on to the words that actually meant things. We would get by with just enough to let people know what we needed so we could purchase our basic needs and they could laugh at my attempts to communicate and then we would drive back home in our European version of a wood paneled station wagon. It might be a really ugly green color, but not the sort of ugly that actually seems cool.
The Muslim portion of the population would go to Mecca on their religious journeys that every good Muslim must make and my Dad and I would think about those trips often. Most of our books would be about stories of Muslim devotion and these journeys to the one place on earth that seems to almost touch heaven in a violent collision of man with God, stories about journeys closer to an unreachable God.
I can’t believe we would fish. It seems so stupid that I would keep eating fish even though I can never learn to like it. Often I would try a new recipe: with tomatoes, onions, a Turkish alchohol, more butter, more salt, but mostly I would just eat it as it should be, simply fried with whatever vegetables on the side, and think of how I should like it by now. But I would enjoy the fishing.
This is not how this entry was supposed to go. I had intended to write about the man I saw who walked towards the exit only automatic door from the outside. I was going to write about the funny messages we got about friends who wanted work and I still haven’t mentioned the talk from Sunday or how nice that hot tub that I mentioned earlier turned out to be, but a small, silly thing happened that made me sad, and then my dad called.
My Dad is so wonderful. Right now what seems best to me is for him to retire and then for the two of us to move somewhere remote into a little shack and to fish, sleep and read short stories for many years. Perhaps a lightly wooded area about half an hours hike to a beach where waves crash against big jagged rocks and it would be dangerous for anyone but good swimmers to swim. But there would be a sort of bay where the water was calm, protected from the waves by a buttress of rocks, and warmer, the lesser body of water being more easily influenced by the sun then the sea.
If you were to only see the landscape in the near vicinity of this small dwelling, one would think it was in Britain, but it isn’t. It is in Portugal, and the closest populous would speak mostly Arabic. Despite my best efforts I would never learn Arabic or Portuguese, understanding both their grammer and syntax but failing to hold on to the words that actually meant things. We would get by with just enough to let people know what we needed so we could purchase our basic needs and they could laugh at my attempts to communicate and then we would drive back home in our European version of a wood paneled station wagon. It might be a really ugly green color, but not the sort of ugly that actually seems cool.
The Muslim portion of the population would go to Mecca on their religious journeys that every good Muslim must make and my Dad and I would think about those trips often. Most of our books would be about stories of Muslim devotion and these journeys to the one place on earth that seems to almost touch heaven in a violent collision of man with God, stories about journeys closer to an unreachable God.
I can’t believe we would fish. It seems so stupid that I would keep eating fish even though I can never learn to like it. Often I would try a new recipe: with tomatoes, onions, a Turkish alchohol, more butter, more salt, but mostly I would just eat it as it should be, simply fried with whatever vegetables on the side, and think of how I should like it by now. But I would enjoy the fishing.
This is not how this entry was supposed to go. I had intended to write about the man I saw who walked towards the exit only automatic door from the outside. I was going to write about the funny messages we got about friends who wanted work and I still haven’t mentioned the talk from Sunday or how nice that hot tub that I mentioned earlier turned out to be, but a small, silly thing happened that made me sad, and then my dad called.
posted by The Begger at 2:13 p.m.
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