Robert Graves

Your turn……..the Confederate Flag as a martyr symbol for hatred past down for generations, your mother.

I like the way you said that. So I sit on my balcony in Mallorca, surrounded by an intense heat, the type I seek in the Winter, a type of heat that clings to your skin, and pushes all the soul out of your pores. You sweat. Instead of moisture, words eek out and you only wish for more and more of the heat. Yesterday, I thought of what it takes to move out of that mode where everything evolves around your own idea of what makes sense, where if you could be part of a caring world you would, instead of jumping away from a searing truth and heat. I hope to see Robert Graves home today, someone I admired when I was in grade school, because my uncle gave me his works to read, as though I was someone who could understand direct translations of Greek mythology, someone who could understand “I Claudius” that Greek psychological drama, someone who would seek out knowledge and understanding. That was my uncle, an older brother to me, so close in age, he would have loved it here.

Mary, I love the food, the pungent smells, the olive oil that permeates the air and every bite of food, and the serrano and chorizo earthiness of it all. Although I prefer Southern Spains country paella, the one that disappears from the restaurant because it is only made once a day, this coastal take on it is great too. I can live on "Tapes" as they call them in Catalunya. I am in Mallorca, and today I get to see the home of my all time favorite, Robert Graves. I poured over his Greek translations when I was a kid, it was one of four books given to me as a child, and I cherished it, didn't understand it, because there was nothing like it in my school library, but read it anyway. The heat, the food, and now I am back to writing, so I love it all. Barbara A.