Saturday, March 24, 2018

the unlikely meanders in the river of dreams

A very long one of having had to return to Venezuela, the circumstances of which were not clear but I was there without my guitar, my books or my computers. I had two places to stay: one was the old house in Los Magallanes de Catia, in which my granddad was still living. The other one was a pad that seemed to belong to my sister and which I was sharing with Peter R, with whom I was having unlikely conversations in Spanish lamenting the fact that at that point I surely was losing my flat in London with all my possessions, having had to leave in a hurry and finding myself kind of trapped in Venezuela without being able to go back. I spent quite a bit of time having conversations with both Peter R and with my grandad -and, again very unlikely, Auntie Lydia who seemed to be in charge of the whole operation- about how I would manage to keep both places, staying one week in one and the next ini the other and how having two places might give me a little more chance to get private pupils, casting a wider net in such a large city. I was lamenting the loss of my guitars most of all and wondering how I would cope. I woke up to the sound of surf, waves crashing in an unseen ocean in the dark, immediately looking to see where my guitar was on its stand, just about making its shape in the darkness but enough to reassure me. I could sleep now.

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