The cat is out of the bag, and potentially among the pigeons, which may come home to roost. Susanne asked me for my blog link on Thursday, after we had gone out for treat pizza in Vivonne. We'd had a jolly evening and I talked a lot / too much / too fast as usual, and she said she was interested. She told me yesterday she'd liked it so much she stayed up until 2am reading it. Felicity said the same thing, she'd do a catch up read and be lying in bed at some ungodly hour wanting to read the next bit. Which is nice to hear, even if I feel a bit guilty that I'm depriving a young mum of her beauty sleep. Aden doesn't read it. He said firmly when we talked (Thursday?) and I wondered if he had an issue with it. Too much information, from his dad, or something. Felicity said not. Maybe he just has a life. I do go on a bit, and almost exclusively about myself. It is my blog.
Then Thomas asked for the link yesterday, and I gave it to him. A little more problematic. Susanne leaves us this week, the day before I go to Naxos, so in a way it doesn't matter what she thinks or who she tells, but Thomas is hoping to stay here in the Gatehouse for a while, and maybe start his market garden. He will have a secret view on my perspective and thoughts and feelings about people here, and this place. Does that matter? Maybe that's a good thing. What if we all did it, and we spent all day reading each others' blogs? It's like a massive share, every day. Perhaps we should all be blogging, like this, as honest and as open as we can be, and all be reading each other's blogs. Argggggggggggggggghhh! Every fucking day. We'd never get anything done, or any sleep.
I did have a paranoid moment, that Susanne tells Rebecca, and Rebecca tells Laurence or Giovanni, and all hell breaks loose, and I'm kicked out, and have to go to Naxos, and maybe that's why I told Suzanne in the first place - engineering my own departure. I was explaining my idea that we all project and create dramas, or that our 'unconscious' or deep self/selves does/do, and that if I was doing that in giving out my blog link, it was because, really deep down, Naxos alone is where I'm going. Or it's all a preparation for a gigantic fuck it moment when I can start drinking again. I did have a bit of a one (a fuck it moment) when Jacques failed to be at the Gare waiting for me, and Andrew went off the deep end and said he wasn't coming until 8.45 and Delyth was giving him what for in the background, and Jacques hadn't telephoned or texted me to tell me what the hell was going on and where he was (outside the Tabac, downstairs at the main station exit) and Andrew hadn't given me a clue what he looked like - I didn't ask - and the BONNEVAUX sign wasn't in the car (where the fuck is it? Get it before I pick up Linda tonight / Giovanni tomorrow). And I really felt like going off to a bar and drinking while waiting for Jacques' entirely mythical 8.45 train and getting totally hammered. Thomas very concerned about them drinking wine (it looked like a rather expensive bottle - we should get a wine box for all these guests) in front of me, but that really isn't a problem - if I want a drink at any time, it's when I'm in a towering rage and I'm on my own, like last night. Or very happy, and on my own. I seem to get as high as a kite in company on NA beer, and especially so in company that's drinking.
I don't seem to be doing much, effective anyway. A certain amount of fiddling with Bonnevaux Power Station - the wind blew the panel over yesterday while I was out shopping and dropping Daniel off at the Campus, so all that lovely sunshine went to waste. Be safer to leave it lying flat on the ground while I'm away, so long as Jean Christophe doesn't run his tractor over it. Got all sorts of useful connectors at Super-U yesterday, and 20 amp fuses. Must stop crossing my wires. And the inverter started working again once there was enough of a charge back in the batteries (the Red fault light went out and the Green stayed on). But the fridge really seems to hammer the system. Or all my Heath Robinson connectors, or the way I've wired up the old car battery that Johnny gave me. Effectively it's being charged one way from the Solar Panel controller, and the other from the 240V supply through the inverter, from the main batteries, also then from the Solar Panel. I can't understand why there isn't some weird electrical / electron traffic jam somewhere among all the wires and batteries. If anything there seems to be a massive hole in the system - or it's the fridge.
Must fill in my time sheet since Tuesday.
Worrying about Pol's utter silence since I sent back The Tobacconists to her. And no reaction to the end of Metanoia (Aden told me where to go to glue all the pdfs together, so I sent out a second file yesterday). She did say in her last email how upset she was about her left eye getting worse and not being able to hop from rock to rock on Iona, so maybe she's just miz, or worse. Give her a ring.
Fivos replied to my message for Eleni about my arrival on May 12. Said he would tell her, and that it was her birthday 'today', but that was last Tuesday. I sent belated greetings anyway. Hope she's actually on the island and not in Berlin, or Brighton, or Athens.
Shit, I'm late for meditation.
Susanne - my smiling talking stone is like a wound. A smile as a wound, a wound as a smile. The mouth and the vagina as wounds. Or smiles. (That's not rude, that's a Desmond Morris reference.) Breasts as buttocks. So's that. Because we stand up and face each other, don't walk around on all fours smelling each other's bottoms, like every one else apart from whales appear to do.
Pictures on my wall - clockwise from left as I sit on my divan. Sukie, all in white, very pretty, smiling, happy, on the ferry in Naoussa, opposite Columbithres, on our lovely holiday on Paros. The high water mark really, of our time together. Jesus, Laurence's icon from St Catherine's in Sinai, looking puzzled and a bit worried. Ingrid's farewell postcard, nice calligraphy, a bald moustached man looking a bit grim, a monochrome etching, 'leaping from place to place, over oblivion', looking straight back at me, me, I suppose (apart from his nose), Pol, standing at a wooden balcony in the madrassa in Marrakech, smiling at me, looking happy and oddly girlish - I must have taken the picture, which is unusual because it is not of her back, 50 metres ahead of me up some path, as so many of my pictures of her were. Then the little cacti, still with me after all this time - Laura gave them to me when I moved in to Sweffling in 2015. (Not a picture, but a friend).
The three stooges, in fancy dress, a party at Digby Road I think, at the beginning of all their adventures - Felicity as David Bowie, Aden very smiley and stoned, Joe being Joe. And above them a nude, pastel on board, that I bought from Sal's exhibition for £20 (well spent I think). Sal's Magic Field is hanging high on the wall in the farmhouse kitchen. The mortar bees buzz in and out, very busy, and I think now occupying a third hole in the ceiling. Yesterday I saw an enormous fat one with a very yellow bum - either covered in pollen, or maybe a queen. The wasps continue to do nothing very much, apart from inspect their dozen or so empty cells with great care and attention. The thought occurred today that they may have come with me from Sweffling and are feeling a little discombobulated, not speaking French waspish. And perhaps their queen got left behind, or swept away in the wind on the way down here. Are they waiting for her to turn up?
Very heady and busy this morning, madly writing this and having lots of thinks, in meditation as well. Thomas set the timer which had a very jolly un-Buddhist like tune that woke us all up at the end. We had a little share and a meeting mostly in French for Jacques' benefit. He knew about the doigt de parole (talking stick) from Findhorn and Le Drome (a Findhorny offshoot down near Grenoble - Grenoble is the French California apparently, very New Age). Susanne said she would tolerate the smiley stone. She is taking the day off. Thomas is working on the gatehouse. Jacques is preparing what appears to be a very elaborate lunch. I am typing this. Stop now, and do some work.
Hannah Arendt, entitled Thinking Without a Banister … ask Harriet if she has a copy. Ring Pol tomorrow (it's been a week).
Sacasas reply - loneliness in the 21st Century, and in the 6th decade of life. How technology does and doesn't help.
Check the Triodos account - is Nick O'Connor (Capital & Conflicts) scamming me? He seems to have taken 3 orders from me, but no acknowledgement.
Suzanne's in a terrible strop. Linda's a nightmare.
Talking to Suzanne after supper (she's cheered up, I was worried it was something in my blog, but she said it wasn't). In fact she complained that I hadn't uploaded my blog today, so she had nothing to read. Argggggggggggggh deadlines. About Arendt, and money and values and the holocaust.
Really getting quite worried. Jacques does a no show, I think I'll go and have a drink. Waiting for Linda at Vivonne, I think I'll go and have a drink. Suzanne goes to bed, and I'm sitting alone outside the house in the dark, listening to an Intercept podcast about Trump and the craven American press throwing Michelle wosname under a bus because she made fun of them at The White House Correspondents Dinner (she was savage, and very funny), and I think I'll go and pour myself a glass of wine from the box I bought everyone else to drink. And I'm about to head off to Naxos, which is likely to be one long I think I'll have a drink moment. And here I am being all holy and disciplined and meditating and shit, and I keep wanting a drink. Which may be the problem - I'm getting bored with being a goody two shoes at Bonnevaux and really want to go off and get hammered. Should I ring Harriet? She said I could, any time. I would if I didn't have such a crap signal. I don't want to keep getting cut off half way through a sentence.
I walked in to the kitchen to put my coffee cup away, and looked at the box of wine on the sideboard. I knew there was no point - I wasn't interested in "a glass of wine" - I wanted to drink the whole fucking box, so I sort of rushed out of the kitchen, but it felt like a close shave. And it is that - I'm not missing the civilised glass of wine at supper, or a nice stiff whisky. I'm missing getting out of my skull, obliterated, thoroughly and completely and stinkingly pissed, quietly in the privacy of my caravan. Why? Why now? Why here?
And I had a nice day. Cleaned up this morning, we had a proper meditation at 12.15 - psalms, readings etc with Suzanne and Thomas keeping relentlessly silent, being very ex-Catholic and a Buddhist, and Jacques unhappy in English (he read John Main in French which is interesting - I miss a lot but I concentrate a lot more on what I do understand, Jacques made us a delicious lunch which we ate outside in the uncomfortably hot sun (which is better than the uncomfortably cool i.e. fridge-like kitchen), I did the washing up - my other job for the day, and then went to Emmaus jacket hunting and playing with the Picasso's French speaking satnav which I think I've cracked.
First Emmaus at St Benoit, was just the best car boot sale on the planet, like a department store of junk all carefully arranged - little stall selling nothing but nuts and bolts, another selling old garden implements - mattocks, forks, pick axes, electrical bits and bobs, a giant bookstore with one whole bookcase full of interesting looking English novels (ongoing reading material problem solved) - and then miles of furniture, rows of chairs, cupboards, armoires, commodes, some really quite classy looking pieces - basically the brico cum meubles de choix, but no clothes. Nice chap gave me the address and directions to the other Emmaus (there are three in Poitiers all told) which sells friperie - clothes apparently - and the satnav took me straight there, and I found a startling bright mustard yellow jacket, light, which will do for Naxos - €5, and so off to Bonnevaux to collect the debit card from Thomas, then SuperU in Vivonne to fill up the car and et some wine, and then the station to wait for Linda. A really strong vibe at the station of it being from my past, when I was 5 or 6, like Winnie the Pooh, or Rupert Bear world, a little French gare, which felt like it was 1958. Not exactly déja vu, but something like that. Not nostalgia either. Just an intense and very old familiarity. Picked up Linda, who seemed fine at first but got weirder and weirder as the evening wore on, trying to talk Frenglispanish, one word at time to four people, three of whom speak excellent English. It was torture. I was quite rude to her - no-one was eating, all waiting for her next word. Some sort of mental condition - OCD like - quite brave, almost, that she just ploughed on, utterly oblivious of the effect she was having on everyone else. I took her back to Le Cadoue as soon as she mentioned the possibility. Jacques asked me afterwards how old I thought she was, and I said about 60, but he thought she was much older (and very like a good friend of his, which is odd because he looks very like someone famous I know, but cannot name at this precise moment (figured it out at mass in Ligugé - he's the twin of mindful Barbara). So that may be part of the problem - that she's just a tired and confused old lady a very long way from home, and very Texan. She knows Anne and Tom, who dropped in the other day, also from Houston.
Writing this definitely helps. I feel much better now than I did half an hour ago, and I'm safe in bed with a cup of tea. I must read my solar panel manuals - the controller thing is giving me numbers that seem to make no sense at all.
It's almost uncomfortably warm in my caravan. Not tempted to wear my fleece in bed at all. The frogs are going bananas. I saw some actual tadpoles the other day (or toad poles - they were big and black).
I should go and upload this now so Suzanne has something to read. She's probably asleep.
Keep hearing a rather nice song on Forum Radio - sounds like a French Lily Allen (whatever happened to her?) - sexy and bouncy and interesting (if only half comprehended) lyrics.
Going to have a choc ice and turn this off. It's 23.59 on Saturday evening. Correct the foregoing in the morning.
Super-U choc ices are bit wussy - too Frenchified. Hope the Magna are better - I want plain vanilla, and dark chocolate.
Go and see Eleni as soon as I get to Naxos and ask her for a massive number and a bag of weed. My treat for staying off the sauce for however many dozens of days it is. Listening to Eleni Kissilova on my speakers - much better than all the crap radio stations, of which there are hundreds - how do they fit them all in? Even Fipradio was a bit dull earlier on. Thomas says he has some nice music on his computer he can copy over for me.
I think I'm reaching the upper limit of the Chrome's text editor's capabilities - getting horribly slow as I type. Although the end of Metanoia was much longer. Something else must be gumming up the works.
Then Thomas asked for the link yesterday, and I gave it to him. A little more problematic. Susanne leaves us this week, the day before I go to Naxos, so in a way it doesn't matter what she thinks or who she tells, but Thomas is hoping to stay here in the Gatehouse for a while, and maybe start his market garden. He will have a secret view on my perspective and thoughts and feelings about people here, and this place. Does that matter? Maybe that's a good thing. What if we all did it, and we spent all day reading each others' blogs? It's like a massive share, every day. Perhaps we should all be blogging, like this, as honest and as open as we can be, and all be reading each other's blogs. Argggggggggggggggghhh! Every fucking day. We'd never get anything done, or any sleep.
I did have a paranoid moment, that Susanne tells Rebecca, and Rebecca tells Laurence or Giovanni, and all hell breaks loose, and I'm kicked out, and have to go to Naxos, and maybe that's why I told Suzanne in the first place - engineering my own departure. I was explaining my idea that we all project and create dramas, or that our 'unconscious' or deep self/selves does/do, and that if I was doing that in giving out my blog link, it was because, really deep down, Naxos alone is where I'm going. Or it's all a preparation for a gigantic fuck it moment when I can start drinking again. I did have a bit of a one (a fuck it moment) when Jacques failed to be at the Gare waiting for me, and Andrew went off the deep end and said he wasn't coming until 8.45 and Delyth was giving him what for in the background, and Jacques hadn't telephoned or texted me to tell me what the hell was going on and where he was (outside the Tabac, downstairs at the main station exit) and Andrew hadn't given me a clue what he looked like - I didn't ask - and the BONNEVAUX sign wasn't in the car (where the fuck is it? Get it before I pick up Linda tonight / Giovanni tomorrow). And I really felt like going off to a bar and drinking while waiting for Jacques' entirely mythical 8.45 train and getting totally hammered. Thomas very concerned about them drinking wine (it looked like a rather expensive bottle - we should get a wine box for all these guests) in front of me, but that really isn't a problem - if I want a drink at any time, it's when I'm in a towering rage and I'm on my own, like last night. Or very happy, and on my own. I seem to get as high as a kite in company on NA beer, and especially so in company that's drinking.
I don't seem to be doing much, effective anyway. A certain amount of fiddling with Bonnevaux Power Station - the wind blew the panel over yesterday while I was out shopping and dropping Daniel off at the Campus, so all that lovely sunshine went to waste. Be safer to leave it lying flat on the ground while I'm away, so long as Jean Christophe doesn't run his tractor over it. Got all sorts of useful connectors at Super-U yesterday, and 20 amp fuses. Must stop crossing my wires. And the inverter started working again once there was enough of a charge back in the batteries (the Red fault light went out and the Green stayed on). But the fridge really seems to hammer the system. Or all my Heath Robinson connectors, or the way I've wired up the old car battery that Johnny gave me. Effectively it's being charged one way from the Solar Panel controller, and the other from the 240V supply through the inverter, from the main batteries, also then from the Solar Panel. I can't understand why there isn't some weird electrical / electron traffic jam somewhere among all the wires and batteries. If anything there seems to be a massive hole in the system - or it's the fridge.
Must fill in my time sheet since Tuesday.
Worrying about Pol's utter silence since I sent back The Tobacconists to her. And no reaction to the end of Metanoia (Aden told me where to go to glue all the pdfs together, so I sent out a second file yesterday). She did say in her last email how upset she was about her left eye getting worse and not being able to hop from rock to rock on Iona, so maybe she's just miz, or worse. Give her a ring.
Fivos replied to my message for Eleni about my arrival on May 12. Said he would tell her, and that it was her birthday 'today', but that was last Tuesday. I sent belated greetings anyway. Hope she's actually on the island and not in Berlin, or Brighton, or Athens.
Shit, I'm late for meditation.
Susanne - my smiling talking stone is like a wound. A smile as a wound, a wound as a smile. The mouth and the vagina as wounds. Or smiles. (That's not rude, that's a Desmond Morris reference.) Breasts as buttocks. So's that. Because we stand up and face each other, don't walk around on all fours smelling each other's bottoms, like every one else apart from whales appear to do.
Pictures on my wall - clockwise from left as I sit on my divan. Sukie, all in white, very pretty, smiling, happy, on the ferry in Naoussa, opposite Columbithres, on our lovely holiday on Paros. The high water mark really, of our time together. Jesus, Laurence's icon from St Catherine's in Sinai, looking puzzled and a bit worried. Ingrid's farewell postcard, nice calligraphy, a bald moustached man looking a bit grim, a monochrome etching, 'leaping from place to place, over oblivion', looking straight back at me, me, I suppose (apart from his nose), Pol, standing at a wooden balcony in the madrassa in Marrakech, smiling at me, looking happy and oddly girlish - I must have taken the picture, which is unusual because it is not of her back, 50 metres ahead of me up some path, as so many of my pictures of her were. Then the little cacti, still with me after all this time - Laura gave them to me when I moved in to Sweffling in 2015. (Not a picture, but a friend).
The three stooges, in fancy dress, a party at Digby Road I think, at the beginning of all their adventures - Felicity as David Bowie, Aden very smiley and stoned, Joe being Joe. And above them a nude, pastel on board, that I bought from Sal's exhibition for £20 (well spent I think). Sal's Magic Field is hanging high on the wall in the farmhouse kitchen. The mortar bees buzz in and out, very busy, and I think now occupying a third hole in the ceiling. Yesterday I saw an enormous fat one with a very yellow bum - either covered in pollen, or maybe a queen. The wasps continue to do nothing very much, apart from inspect their dozen or so empty cells with great care and attention. The thought occurred today that they may have come with me from Sweffling and are feeling a little discombobulated, not speaking French waspish. And perhaps their queen got left behind, or swept away in the wind on the way down here. Are they waiting for her to turn up?
Very heady and busy this morning, madly writing this and having lots of thinks, in meditation as well. Thomas set the timer which had a very jolly un-Buddhist like tune that woke us all up at the end. We had a little share and a meeting mostly in French for Jacques' benefit. He knew about the doigt de parole (talking stick) from Findhorn and Le Drome (a Findhorny offshoot down near Grenoble - Grenoble is the French California apparently, very New Age). Susanne said she would tolerate the smiley stone. She is taking the day off. Thomas is working on the gatehouse. Jacques is preparing what appears to be a very elaborate lunch. I am typing this. Stop now, and do some work.
Hannah Arendt, entitled Thinking Without a Banister … ask Harriet if she has a copy. Ring Pol tomorrow (it's been a week).
Sacasas reply - loneliness in the 21st Century, and in the 6th decade of life. How technology does and doesn't help.
Check the Triodos account - is Nick O'Connor (Capital & Conflicts) scamming me? He seems to have taken 3 orders from me, but no acknowledgement.
Suzanne's in a terrible strop. Linda's a nightmare.
Talking to Suzanne after supper (she's cheered up, I was worried it was something in my blog, but she said it wasn't). In fact she complained that I hadn't uploaded my blog today, so she had nothing to read. Argggggggggggggh deadlines. About Arendt, and money and values and the holocaust.
Really getting quite worried. Jacques does a no show, I think I'll go and have a drink. Waiting for Linda at Vivonne, I think I'll go and have a drink. Suzanne goes to bed, and I'm sitting alone outside the house in the dark, listening to an Intercept podcast about Trump and the craven American press throwing Michelle wosname under a bus because she made fun of them at The White House Correspondents Dinner (she was savage, and very funny), and I think I'll go and pour myself a glass of wine from the box I bought everyone else to drink. And I'm about to head off to Naxos, which is likely to be one long I think I'll have a drink moment. And here I am being all holy and disciplined and meditating and shit, and I keep wanting a drink. Which may be the problem - I'm getting bored with being a goody two shoes at Bonnevaux and really want to go off and get hammered. Should I ring Harriet? She said I could, any time. I would if I didn't have such a crap signal. I don't want to keep getting cut off half way through a sentence.
I walked in to the kitchen to put my coffee cup away, and looked at the box of wine on the sideboard. I knew there was no point - I wasn't interested in "a glass of wine" - I wanted to drink the whole fucking box, so I sort of rushed out of the kitchen, but it felt like a close shave. And it is that - I'm not missing the civilised glass of wine at supper, or a nice stiff whisky. I'm missing getting out of my skull, obliterated, thoroughly and completely and stinkingly pissed, quietly in the privacy of my caravan. Why? Why now? Why here?
And I had a nice day. Cleaned up this morning, we had a proper meditation at 12.15 - psalms, readings etc with Suzanne and Thomas keeping relentlessly silent, being very ex-Catholic and a Buddhist, and Jacques unhappy in English (he read John Main in French which is interesting - I miss a lot but I concentrate a lot more on what I do understand, Jacques made us a delicious lunch which we ate outside in the uncomfortably hot sun (which is better than the uncomfortably cool i.e. fridge-like kitchen), I did the washing up - my other job for the day, and then went to Emmaus jacket hunting and playing with the Picasso's French speaking satnav which I think I've cracked.
First Emmaus at St Benoit, was just the best car boot sale on the planet, like a department store of junk all carefully arranged - little stall selling nothing but nuts and bolts, another selling old garden implements - mattocks, forks, pick axes, electrical bits and bobs, a giant bookstore with one whole bookcase full of interesting looking English novels (ongoing reading material problem solved) - and then miles of furniture, rows of chairs, cupboards, armoires, commodes, some really quite classy looking pieces - basically the brico cum meubles de choix, but no clothes. Nice chap gave me the address and directions to the other Emmaus (there are three in Poitiers all told) which sells friperie - clothes apparently - and the satnav took me straight there, and I found a startling bright mustard yellow jacket, light, which will do for Naxos - €5, and so off to Bonnevaux to collect the debit card from Thomas, then SuperU in Vivonne to fill up the car and et some wine, and then the station to wait for Linda. A really strong vibe at the station of it being from my past, when I was 5 or 6, like Winnie the Pooh, or Rupert Bear world, a little French gare, which felt like it was 1958. Not exactly déja vu, but something like that. Not nostalgia either. Just an intense and very old familiarity. Picked up Linda, who seemed fine at first but got weirder and weirder as the evening wore on, trying to talk Frenglispanish, one word at time to four people, three of whom speak excellent English. It was torture. I was quite rude to her - no-one was eating, all waiting for her next word. Some sort of mental condition - OCD like - quite brave, almost, that she just ploughed on, utterly oblivious of the effect she was having on everyone else. I took her back to Le Cadoue as soon as she mentioned the possibility. Jacques asked me afterwards how old I thought she was, and I said about 60, but he thought she was much older (and very like a good friend of his, which is odd because he looks very like someone famous I know, but cannot name at this precise moment (figured it out at mass in Ligugé - he's the twin of mindful Barbara). So that may be part of the problem - that she's just a tired and confused old lady a very long way from home, and very Texan. She knows Anne and Tom, who dropped in the other day, also from Houston.
Writing this definitely helps. I feel much better now than I did half an hour ago, and I'm safe in bed with a cup of tea. I must read my solar panel manuals - the controller thing is giving me numbers that seem to make no sense at all.
It's almost uncomfortably warm in my caravan. Not tempted to wear my fleece in bed at all. The frogs are going bananas. I saw some actual tadpoles the other day (or toad poles - they were big and black).
I should go and upload this now so Suzanne has something to read. She's probably asleep.
Keep hearing a rather nice song on Forum Radio - sounds like a French Lily Allen (whatever happened to her?) - sexy and bouncy and interesting (if only half comprehended) lyrics.
Going to have a choc ice and turn this off. It's 23.59 on Saturday evening. Correct the foregoing in the morning.
Super-U choc ices are bit wussy - too Frenchified. Hope the Magna are better - I want plain vanilla, and dark chocolate.
Go and see Eleni as soon as I get to Naxos and ask her for a massive number and a bag of weed. My treat for staying off the sauce for however many dozens of days it is. Listening to Eleni Kissilova on my speakers - much better than all the crap radio stations, of which there are hundreds - how do they fit them all in? Even Fipradio was a bit dull earlier on. Thomas says he has some nice music on his computer he can copy over for me.
I think I'm reaching the upper limit of the Chrome's text editor's capabilities - getting horribly slow as I type. Although the end of Metanoia was much longer. Something else must be gumming up the works.
Many refs to wanting a drink suggests to me you’re anxious about Naxos freedom and associations to drinking there. I grasp it , have that with lovely weather and sitting outdoors. Courage mom ami.
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