Retreat

Presenting below – some blog-cuttings by SARSPARlllA – a blogger who ‘approaches Borges’ as one of his followers has noted.

Brilliant, thoughtful writing from someone who looks like the contemporary James Cook.  And the entire world seen in fractals – incomprehensible, awe-inspiring, hurtful… A place to run away from – or rather, like in a vertigo trap – to escape to by retreating from…

Woken by five phone calls a night. Panicked, jealous.

The heat so enervating, my toes burned.

‘What do you think of Belen?’ Unable to lie.’It makes my heart hurt.’

Prehistoric turtles with diamond heads. With leaf heads, floating. Ayahuasca. A capuchin tied by the penis.

The attention Is gets, and that I’ve grown too old for; and the pleasant feeling of not resenting it.

The tiny frogs in the rain outside a sushi restaurant.

Slipping through black silt faeces in the floating village,dry season on the orillas of the Itayo river.

Everyone looks like Josue – delicate noses – when the Iquito tribe were wide-nosed.

Wanting desperately to do something to help lift them out of this poverty.

It’s beginning to hurt him more than it’s hurting me.

Partly, that’s because raw terror is making me block all thoughts of future, or of change, out. (it’s a coping mechanism, leave me be).

Partly it’s because running away is always the easier role than being run from.

I can’t help him much with that. He’s the one who made me choose. I could have managed half my life not choosing.