It wouldn’t be appropriate to sleep here, though I’m tired. I’ve brought my lap top to Prestige Toyota in Kingston New York, where they are replacing the tire I blew yesterday. Only a little while ago there had been a half a dozen people in this waiting area, where I’ve waited before. Fortunately, as I didn’t bring any headphones, they were all quiet. But one by one they’ve been told their cards are ready and they rose to left. Diane has come to notify me. But for now, I’ve time to write. Off in the distance beyond Route 9, beyond the miserable signs and cars and criss-crossing wires are the majestic Catskill Mountains.
“My Last Sigh” is the autobiography of Luis Brunuel and after finishing off "Tristana" I dug in, on my good friend’s recommendation. It was charming and certainly insightful as it concerned the Lorca and Dali and Breton. Surrealists are not, it would seem, and predictably enough, particularly consistent and I didn’t think much for his justifications for bad movies and uninspired acts. But it was fun to be with a heavy drinker and it was humbling to think of the choices faced by people who really had to chose between anarchist forces, communist forces and fascist forces. I’ll see if I can find his treatment of “Tristana” on my collection of movie-viewing channels I reluctantly consider from time to time.
An older white man, which is to say a peer-level white man, has just come in and sat down with a young black man. I’ve stared at them twice. I do not care that they are one race or another or whether or not they are friends, relatives or lovers. I just want them to stop talking because before they walked in it was perfectly quiet in here and I could think as I type. The hairy eyeball seems to have worked. They are both staring off in space, quietly just now. Some guy who works here is on the phone speaking Spanish in a ridiculous voice, but this is a lesser form of distraction because I can’t really understand a thing he is saying.
Yawning. Always yawning. I keep oddballs sleeping hours and it doesn’t matter that I went to bed early and slept late and had a few cups of coffee this morning. My body is still demanding rest, almost instinctively, preparing it would seem for the next bout of deprivation. Off to my side is Camilo Jose Cela’s “Journey to the Alcarria” which he wrote about himself in the third person in 1948. A Nobel Laureate, I’d read Cela’s “The Hive” the last time I visited Spain thirty years ago, though I can’t remember a single salient thing about it other than the twisted face of the guy on the cover of the version I’d had. I also have a Lonely Planet Spain, which I want to review as well. One book is on the left. One is on the right. But the first thing I may do is revisit the restroom, even though I was just here forty-five minutes ago.
Saturday 07/24/21
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