I think it might prove difficult writing about the next few days, since there is really nothing to do here. Val is pretty heavily into her weaving, so has that to interest her, but for me, I’m afraid it’s far more the case of simply passing time, but then, what else is life? (it could be argued.) In my less self-aware moments, the recluse life has its appeal. But in fact I don’t actually find such a situation productive. It wasn’t really so at Widdacombe, + I don’t find it so here. Not that I know what a productive situation is, from my point of view. Maybe seclusion is what I need – to bore myself into action. I think this – writing this – is about all the creativity I can summon nowadays. Anyway, Feb 8th.
Val + I treated ourselves to a large breakfast, an omelette, + then she went off to weave while I strolled around with the camera. We’d just finished the film, so I loaded a black + white one in, + set off in search of suitable subjects. Wandered down to the lake, + along by the road – met some nice friendly Americans who’d just taken a house there – + then back up to town via a back route. Sat down in the shade – it was a hot day – outside a bar, + a friendly old Guatemalan guy came out to chat. Tho’ when he discovered I didn’t smoke marijuana (I was playing it safe) he lost interest.
Went over to where Val was working to take some pictures, + to my surprise, everyone there seemed to want to have their picture taken – I must have used up half the film. The afternoon I spent lazily – reading, writing – waiting for Val. I sat in the square for a while, writing the diary, much to the interest of the guys there. They would sit down next to me + peer over my shoulder, not pretending to hide their curiosity. I didn’t really mind, mainly because I was pretty well certain they couldn’t read English. People here are nosy, certainly by English standards. They ask very personal questions, + will come + peer in to our room thro’ the window. In the evening, Val + I ate a very tasty vegetable soup in the usual restaurant, followed by a yogurt – usual fare.
Don’t know if I have mentioned this, but Widdacombe was the name of the cottage near Dartmoor where I lived for a while, with the idea of doing some writing… hmm. But I did have writing to get on with, and believe that I caught up with the diary at this point.
Otherwise, a relatively lazy day – for me, at any rate.