I’ve been reading The Black Book by Lawrence Durrell, famous for his Alexandria Quartet.
The Black Book takes place on the island of Corfu, where Durrell lived for a time. This is very dense and intense prose, compelling and yet daunting as the story demands more and more of my attention, more perhaps than my brain, recovering from a relapse of depression, can afford to give.
My head aches now. I don’t know why. Maybe I need more sleep. I read a few angry sentences of a fellow blogger, whose indignant rants some will mistake for truth. Satan spends a lot of time telling us that both he and The Triune God don’t exist. That is all I can think of when I consider this blogger and their work.
J worked another full day, while I did a lot a sleeping this morning. And I truly miss her this Sunday.
More coffee is in order. Maybe it’s time to watch Buena Vista Social Club again. For the music, for the poignant charm of Old Havana languishing in Castro’s imposed decay. Mostly it’s time to dream of the love evoked by the music, deep and passionate. Some patchouli incense may help with the mood. I will imagine my lover grinding her buttocks back into me, as I raise the hem of her dress. She wears no knickers as if she wants no fabric of impediment. And I feel the wetness of her cleft, hearing the moan two fingers thrusting in her cunt will draw from her throat..
The headache lessens. The ache is the pain that begs release in the erotic words I let escape.
The readers whom I love know who they are.