I’m kidding, mostly, in the title. But it’s a shame to be sick and feel weak on the day before the last day of school; it’s a shame not to get to see my friends here in Madrid before we leave. I spent the morning in bed, and I’ve spent the afternoon thus far trying to figure out what would make me feel better. The only bright spot is that when I’m sick I get to make myself mint-lemon-ginger sweet tea, which is possibly the best of all infusions. (In a tea strainer, add 2 teaspoons of dried mint, some gratings or slices of ginger, and 2 teaspoons of sugar. Add the juice of half a lemon (or a full lemon), and pour almost-boiling water over the mixture. Steep for at least five minutes. Adjust sugar if you want it sweeter.)(I’m not a big honey fan, for whatever reason, but this would be fine with honey or agave nectar instead of sugar.)
I got my stitches out of my lip today, which is good. I’m looking forward to my lip healing entirely.
You know, I rarely post on here like I used to — like I used to five years ago, I mean. This sort of thing — each paragraph treating a different topic, loosely connected perhaps but perhaps not at all. Also there were entries that were numbered because they were so completely unrelated. Sometimes I like looking back and reading something I wrote, say, five years ago. Things have changed a lot; they also have changed very little. (It should be noted that these old posts aren’t here on this website.)
I’ve been following the World Cup, which means that for the first time since the last World Cup (when I rooted for France), I’m watching entire association football matches. It’s fun; it also means that I’ve had more conversations with my roommates than ever, since we can talk about sports for once. It’s kind of fun, although I still don’t know most of the players. I’m rooting for the US, and for Spain. If it comes to it, I’ll transfer allegiances to Argentina, or perhaps Brazil. But we’ll see what happens. I’m watching Argentina play Greece right now.
Now to break some rules, and follow some others;
Sometimes he receives notes from the past,
short in their wording and direct in their import;
they break out of the seas like bubbles
and hold him to a forgotten wall.
When they come to him,
they are like fireflies below a waning moon
and he closes his eyes before them
in a movement of shame.
The words are always written in a heavy hand,
script more indentation than outline,
the black ink sometimes faded.
They are always unavoidable.
When he dines with his girlfriend
or transfers lines in the depths of the subway,
he has been known to see reflections,
or embossed words
in the wrinkles on her face,
in the plastic boxes that house advertisements.
Once, in frustration, she called him late at night
and asked him to explain his distractions.
“I can’t,” he said into the receiver,
“and I don’t know if I want to.”
The present is not inescapable
any more than the past is incapable of forgetting;
his dreams will not leave him alone,
because he has not yet given them up.
I think this is a good example of why I haven’t written a poem in quite some time. But that doesn’t [necessarily] mean that it’s bad.
I made Madeleine’s pumpkin pasta last night, and am eating its leftovers with some bacon to give it a different flavor. I made the dish in the first place because I found a can of pumpkin I bought last November, and then forgot about; it’s a great recipe.
When I first started living here, in October, I disliked cooking for just myself, since I was so used to always cooking for three or four. But I’m not averse to leftovers, so I’ve been enjoying the idea of cooking for myself one night and eating it for three or four. As I’ve mentioned before, I try generally to spruce up leftovers — it’s a lot more fun to eat the same thing when it’s not quite the same thing. Roasted chicken turns into roasted chicken tacos. Spicy peanut sauce and pasta turns into pasta with pan-seared chicken and a creamy spicy peanut sauce. Pumpkin pasta becomes pumpkin-bacon pasta. The other day, I made a vegetable dal, with a gigantic cauliflower and some pepper and other veggies. Without meaning to, I made a huge amount, and literally ate it for five meals (lunches included); it was good since I couldn’t chew as well as normal. By the last day, I was tired of it, though; I turned it into more of a soup than it usually is by adding water and small pasta, and a bouillon cube. The flavor transformed — it was the same, but varied.
I’m going to miss living in Spain. But I don’t think I’ll miss it that much, somehow.
