Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter

Life, Writing

Day 185

It had, of course, totally passed me by that I have now been writing this daily for over half a year. The truth is that I didn’t really think I’d be able to keep going at any sort of consistency, and am proud of myself for doing so. And even prouder of the fact that I came up with the idea of Aggie, and that she is going in directions I hadn’t anticipated when she was born out of a single thought I had (or she implanted in my head) which was that to be happy meant not thinking at all (which we all, including her, have difficulty with). We will see on 31st December where she finishes up – well, I will; you’ll have to buy the book to read the ending.

Last full day here, and I am full of sadness (and apprehension over the travel, apprehension I never really feel when travelling alone; apprehension I can’t explain or rationalise). Part of me is glad we’re going – I will not miss the daily morning routine of smearing gloopy sun cream onto the parts of me which will be exposed to the sun (direct or reflected); I will certainly not miss the fact that the hotel bar (and other places) are turning into English pubs, albeit 1,700 miles.from England, and I’m hearing accents and voices and views I’d rather not hear.

I will miss too many things to list, and when we come back (if we come back, as life is full of vagaries) I will make a greater effort to speak and understand Greek (the remembered realisation that rhythm is as much a part of a language as pronunciation has come a bit late again this time round). And of course I’ll miss doing nothing while trying to do something. I’m disappointed I haven’t finished the short story (or even got into the meat of it), and wonder if I’ll be able to write it based on all the notes I do have when I’m no longer in the heat and chatter and benevolence of this place. Part of me does believe this is a blessed place, although the cynical and frightened part of me is already putting a cage around that emotion so I don’t totally break down when we do leave. It’s an old cliché, but it’s the truest of all – partir, ç’est toujours un peu mourir.

I’m glad we came here. I have been illuminated in many unexpected ways.

PS – It’s now gone 16:30. I had planned, after finishing an awful thriller by someone who should know better, to read something good all day. Instead, I have written all day, written so much on the short story (tentatively called OPPOSITES), which looks like it might become a novella instead, that I ran out of characters in the Keep Notes app on my phone and I had to start a new one. Still quicker than long-hand. I also have café Giorgos’ address now because I promised him I would send him something when we got home. I’d better finish this short story/novella fast so I can send him a signed ms of it. However ridiculous it sounds, my heart is heavy. But better to care too easily than not care at all.


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