Life at № 42 by E.M. Coutinho
Time insists on passing. I looked at the calendar today and realized that this time two years ago, we were packing up Villa l’Africaine. Yesterday I received a lovely card from Esme & Rosie’s Cloud. I let them live on it, but as a general rule clouds are mine; because everything is mine. Rita Barberá died of a stroke. She was mayor of Valencia for 24 years and then a senator. In my opinion she represented the worst of Spanish politics. (I waited a whole week to say that as to not be inelegant.)
Last week we had a storm. Thunder, lightning and incredibly strong winds. A plant pot outside fell over and broke. Two of the dogs hate storms; Rudy, the youngest, could care less. Ever since I can remember consciousness I wonder if I’ll wake up before I fall asleep. Not waking up doesn’t scare me. In fact when I do wake up, I think, “Oh, I see, here we go again.”
Life is liv(e)able. I stopped smoking in March. I’ll take it up again as soon as I’m diagnosed with a disease of some importance or reach 50. Whichever comes first. I miss the superb sense of control. I still drink. Heavily enough for it to be fun. What’s life without fun?
At this precise moment I’m not entirely inspired by humanity. I wonder what it’s like to live in one of those Tulou of the Hakka people of Fujian. I wonder too many things. Too much of the time. It’s 1 am. Friday to Saturday. In a large house in the south of France. Let’s speak again sometime soon.