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Alone for a week in a Tiny House on the banks of the Tejo estuary, with Portuguese sun and a salty breeze: what could be better for getting some mental distance from the vagaries of life with a 17-year-old manchild? I will eat good food, drink good drink, play with my horse, and write.
Or not. Whenever I have peeked into my substack universe this week it seemed that everyone was looking at me and wondering when I was going to finally shake a few thoughts out of my head and on to the virtual page. Friend to all Alex Dobrenko is quoting Franz Kafka1 over at Both Are True, Jami Attenberg is bravely leading the troops through another #1000wordsofsummer2, Jen Hitze offers 5 Big Ideas3 this week about (wait for it) writing. Considering that I am responsible for curating my inbox, it is hardly surprising that there are a lot of writers who also write about writing. I am just taking it very personally at the moment.
It is Sunday afternoon. I sit on the promenade and watch the world, inhaling deeply to get enough of the salty air into my being to last for a while. All the dogs passing come over to say hi, probably because my shoes smell like horse stable and are worth investigation. I practice polite conversation in my halting Portuguese with their owners. Everyone is happy, including Pepe the long-haired dachshund, whose laughing owner in her Sunday dress and gold jewelry informs me that he just wants a little kiss (“quer um beijinho” ) and I oblige.
Yesterday my horse, who at five has finally outgrown his puppy stage, followed me around the yard. He senses when I am leaving for a while, I think, because he gets very clingy. It is strange, and touching, to have this bond with a large animal. Something that works without the words that are my usual source of power, a trust built simply through breathing together, touch, movement.
In the morning I will rise in the dark, make the otherworldly drive across the marvel of engineering that is the Vasco da Gama bridge, and reluctantly board a plane back to the rainy and flooded middle of Europe.
Observant readers will note that the word “home” does not appear anywhere in the above, which brings us to the heart of this substack exploration. Where is home, and why?4 If “home is where the heart is,” it is no wonder that I feel so divided.
Don’t worry, I’m not going to attempt to answer those questions just now.