Camino 3 - 3 November 2014
By Parson Thru
Monday 3 November and the Camino is falling back into the weeks and months behind me. I visualise the stages of Apollo's Saturn V rocket falling backwards to burn up in the atmosphere, lost to memory.
I’ve written two or three pieces so far – two or three days of fourteen – with maybe another three or four roughed-out. Today is an unusual day. A day off work.
Since Friday, I’ve been trying to shake off the strain of trying to hold so much in my head and fight through one problem after another, while formulating solutions for the ones that I know are coming.
My mother – I wish I was somewhere like as tough as her – has bounced out of surgery under general anaesthetic at the age of 79. But the days leading up and the distance between my office and the hospital placed additional strain. She’s fine now. Just lonely. Thankfully, she’s got my kids close by.
Writing is a selfish preoccupation. Best left to loners in garrets or perched in old fisherman’s houses overlooking the Atlantic. The urge to record something that holds memories of epic struggle against myself; moments of true peace; the most wonderful social interactions – humans at their best; and the rediscovery of two shared lives, all this set in pitched-battle against the necessities of a life in an over-worked society.
I need to tell you about Will and Terri, Cyril, the French picnickers, Ziggy, the Irish lads and all the wonderful conversations. About my legs breaking down in cramp – the hours hobbling down to Sarria and the lovely lady at the pension.
Time swallows things that I so want to share – so many great characters and examples of fortitude. So many wonderful moments.
I just need to find the time and try to hold onto some of those memories until I can get there.
A balancing-act extraordinaire.
Got to go for now.