Pomegranate and chocolate amargo

Dessert before dinner to cap off our five day indulgence spree.

Strangely, my dissatisfaction pulls at me, like the tide away from the shore. Alone in a room full of people. When will I stop feeling alone?

As we walked through the farm, we encountered Javier a visionary, a poet, a farmer, who has worked this same land for the last twenty years. He had a marvelous name for the president - el mono diabólico - and a fabulous philosophy of life - to be content, with what you have, or to look for what will make you happy. Expressed in a much more beautiful way and with a kindness of soul, as if he could ascertain the pain, and soothe it, and offer alternatives not previously examined.

I am so astounded by these brilliant women who call themselves friends, as they play games on the computer and create a new and (much) improved web site for me, or explain the mysteries of crop rotation.

I have come to the conclusion (again) that there are many things in this life that I will never know how to do, and that I best accept this, and move forward. I am also feeling guilty (again) that I am focusing on petty existential minutae when I should be doing something to combat the horrendous and atrocious injustices that my country is commiting even as I write. How many babies will lose mothers or fathers or limbs in the time it takes me to write this crap in my very safe, and very comfortable living room? Would a bullet in the brain solve any of this? No? Then I guess I will continue to breathe, and process from the interiority of a completely uselessly ineffectual intellectual. AND... I am writing a new story that will be both completely un-political, and probably awful by all artistic standards... arggggggggh.

I hate Sunday nights. They are crushing.