In other words, one with blue sky, white cumulus clouds, warmth, a light breeze and the opportunity to admire cornfields that are nearly ready for harvest and later summer flowers, mallows, fennel, poppies, vetch and marguerites. And then the chance of going out to lunch - not quite a platonic lunch - but some of the elements: sitting outside, proximity to water (the River Stour), some pergola effect, and fantastically enjoyable conversation (no proper fish though - only whitebait - no good at all). Then driving back across the countryside and feeling absolutely hollow with longing/nostalgia/velleity - feelings that reached such a pitch that I actually uttered a sound to release them, express them. These feelings - which are not sexual (though they could tend that way given the right encouragement) always seem to focus on one particular person - but I don't think they were caused by lack of him in any way. They were caused by the lack of something - what?
It's like the Fruhlingsehnsucht feeling - just a desperate yearning. Brought on by? Beauty and pleasure in some way, perhaps a recognition of a lack of these qualities in my life. Not an absence, but just rather meagre portions at present. I have learned to enjoy what I have on the whole, but every so often these feelings get under the barrier created by the Citalopram and I see briefly that I do not have enough... and now my mood has been spoilt by M coming and fussing reproachfully about the cat litter, so I asked him to notice that I was writing - and he gave me a look. This morning he apologised for being grumpy last night when I came in after the book group - but it didn't sweeten his mood much. I have to conclude that he just hates me going out.
Most of the time, since the great crisis last summer I have developed a modus vivendi, and he's had his ticking off/prayer from my father which seems to have helped. But periodically he becomes hateful and I feel trapped. At present I feel there is a project that needs to be completed with him (helping the children grow up and repaying all our debts) but I have a sense of a limited time on this relationship. I blame that bloody astrologer in India - shouldn't have told me I'd marry 3 times....and yet at other times I think, well if we grow old and die together it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. Sometimes I think, "when I'm 64"...
This blog wasn't meant to be a complaint about Mark - but a tribute to Simon, who is doing that annoying thing that people do from time to time, of buggering off just as one's getting to know them. But we will still write, and he gave me a book of his poems appropriately entitled "Foreign Correspondence" which I really like. I should have asked him to write in it. His poems are romantic and funny, I have the sense of them being the sort of things I would like to write myself, and some of them, with their references to the classical world remind me of John Heath-Stubbs - my favourite modern poet - completely unknown to anyone else. I wonder if Simon knows his stuff.
He encouraged me to get on with Proust and use the Scott Moncrief translation... perhaps I will. On the way back from dropping Ned and his chums at Lounge I passed the hospital he told me he might be in shortly. Good that I apparently helped keep him out - I hope returning to Alonissos will be the best asylum for him.
It's like the Fruhlingsehnsucht feeling - just a desperate yearning. Brought on by? Beauty and pleasure in some way, perhaps a recognition of a lack of these qualities in my life. Not an absence, but just rather meagre portions at present. I have learned to enjoy what I have on the whole, but every so often these feelings get under the barrier created by the Citalopram and I see briefly that I do not have enough... and now my mood has been spoilt by M coming and fussing reproachfully about the cat litter, so I asked him to notice that I was writing - and he gave me a look. This morning he apologised for being grumpy last night when I came in after the book group - but it didn't sweeten his mood much. I have to conclude that he just hates me going out.
Most of the time, since the great crisis last summer I have developed a modus vivendi, and he's had his ticking off/prayer from my father which seems to have helped. But periodically he becomes hateful and I feel trapped. At present I feel there is a project that needs to be completed with him (helping the children grow up and repaying all our debts) but I have a sense of a limited time on this relationship. I blame that bloody astrologer in India - shouldn't have told me I'd marry 3 times....and yet at other times I think, well if we grow old and die together it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. Sometimes I think, "when I'm 64"...
This blog wasn't meant to be a complaint about Mark - but a tribute to Simon, who is doing that annoying thing that people do from time to time, of buggering off just as one's getting to know them. But we will still write, and he gave me a book of his poems appropriately entitled "Foreign Correspondence" which I really like. I should have asked him to write in it. His poems are romantic and funny, I have the sense of them being the sort of things I would like to write myself, and some of them, with their references to the classical world remind me of John Heath-Stubbs - my favourite modern poet - completely unknown to anyone else. I wonder if Simon knows his stuff.
He encouraged me to get on with Proust and use the Scott Moncrief translation... perhaps I will. On the way back from dropping Ned and his chums at Lounge I passed the hospital he told me he might be in shortly. Good that I apparently helped keep him out - I hope returning to Alonissos will be the best asylum for him.
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