sexta-feira, 31 de julho de 2020

Version 2.088

I woke up in a bit of a panic. I dreamt I was in Australia for a layover and also to meet a friend, who actually lives in Londons, but it's a dream and dreams don't make sense. We met at a building where there was a sculpture by a Spanish artist. She had a car, so I left a suitcase and a bag in it, but took my purse, except my purse did not have my cell phone, nor did it have my passport. I also did not have my tiny address book, where I keep the phone numbers and addresses for most people I care about; it's my analog back up, which hasn't been updated very regularly lately, but I usually carry it for peace of mind and to mail postcards sometimes.

My friend and I had an argument over the sculpture, as there were plans to move it to the bottom of a lake. She was very upset about it, but I kept rationalizing it. She left and after a while I open my purse and realize that nothing of use is there, yet I am supposed to fly out. I think I don't have any phone numbers for people who can help me and I also am probably not going to remember passwords to log into social media off the top of my head, so the best course of action is to go the police to see if they can help me catch my flight out. Then I realize that my work computer is in my luggage and I start to panic. I wake up.

Although everything is jumbled up, it all kind of makes sense, as this week I was explaining to someone that I have friends in Australia, who have asked me numerous times to visit them, but the thought of such a long flight is a huge turn off. I have also been thinking a lot about how Spain has had so many world class artists that were not only influential, but were innovators. Cervante's Don Quixote is considered the first novel ever written; Goya's The Disasters of War were depiction that almost resemble journalism, in which the artist presents war from the point of view of the victims. Then there's Velasquez, Picasso, Dalí, Miró, Gaudí...

Social critique are even present in today's Spanish artists. For example, Jaume Plensa's sculptures, which I have seen in permanent installation in Houston at Buffalo Bayou (the Tolerance sculptures) and Rice University (Mirror) and also in an exhibit in Memphis (Talking Continents), all of them spectacular. He has works in public places all over the world, but not in Portugal. Well, Greece, Poland, and Croatia also don't have any. The sad thing about Portugal is that I dare say that Joe Berardo has done more for the plastic arts than any government since the Republic began. We should all have some late afternoon drinks to his health, despite his unorthodox methods.

Anyway, the fight with my friend is probably a guilt complex because I have not checked on her since the beginning of the pandemic. I realize that the failure is mutual, but just a couple of days ago I was telling my counselor about my hyperactive conscience to which she replied "Yes, but look how far that has gotten you." 

When I am at work, I always get upset when I'm in the middle of something and the computer says it has to shut down. I realize that it gets backed up every day and that they have to push security patches, but if I were to lose it, I'd feel really bad about it, like I had been a total failure. And yet, I am sure that I would not be the first one to whom that would happen. Our mind sure works in mysterious ways.

I finished reading a rather worthless book today, but, what the hell, not everything can be Proust, which I likely should have read instead. Then Instagram reminded me that five years ago I was in Porto, Portugal, having scones and tea at Em Carne Viva--I love that place so much, even though scones have been eliminated from my repertoire. I still cannot imagine what I'll be able to eat for breakfast at a pastry shop if I ever visit. I suppose I'll be the weirdo eating suspiros and ovos moles. There is also ice-cream: I hope they still have epá.













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