for Christmas i was given Marcel Proust’s “In Search of Lost Time” vol.1 and i put it in my hand luggage for my 2 week trip back to Portugal. it was a trip planned to work on a book as well as to recover from the many stresses i had been through in the last few years. During the trip i always carried the book with me but i never read it. instead, the idea given by its title influenced my thoughts as i briefly returned to the country of my birth.
the few pieces that still stand are a few members of my extended family, my mother’s house and one of my closest friend, Tó, whom i always visit and whose changes i notice each time we meet.
only the trees remain the same, always, and when i think of which part of me still belongs there, i think about the trees which like me hold on the that ground with their roots
i hang on to unimportant moments; i see those as the most relevant to retain a memory, a sense of routine in a place as an antidote to building the myth. during the journey back home where I now live, the landscape is always emptier, less magical. i spend most of it sleeping, with a sense of defeat as though i am being forced back into a less interesting life: to go back to what i know.