why is my fathers melted ice-cream so important?

SUNDAY 15th JULY

Busy day at Mira, everyone is sitting in the shade to eat their picnics, the village is swamped with the smell and taste of roast chickens, bread and olives.

from Sei Shonagon:
Things that cannot be compared:
summer and winter
night and day
rain and sunshine
youth and age
a persons laughter and their anger
love and hatred
the little indigo plant
and the great philodendron
rain and mist

when one has stopped loving somebody, one feels that they have become someone else, even though they are still the same person –

I find a sheltered spot on the beach for a spell, watch people try their hands at volleyball, a Zimbabwean mother whose gorgeous little girl keeps running onto the playing court with her own ball. Some long American girls are doing pre-pubescent yoga poses (with considerable grace) – this scene is very pleasing to me – I text T, he says O has emailed and wants to meet up – cool – it sounds like Paul is still staying with him – I wonder if he has sucked his cock yet like he wants to – thinking about heading to the spa at Luso on Tuesday instead of meeting Jorge – maybe head to Mira tmoro –

C says she has not gone for the ultrasound yet, I want it to be twins, she says she will have a heart attack if it is –
G is starting work in a bakery – he is staying with Sam – not enjoying it –

This morning I woke up before dawn and there were two bright stars near the moon – one is Venus I am sure, the cow and her calf – the other? Mars?
bright orange fingernails pulling a Camel cigarette out of a packet –

I dont know what pissed the girl in the tourist information office off so bad – my crap Portuguese or the fact that I was asking directions to a nudist beach – she repeated the same thing twice even though I said I understood the first time – and then she explained a third time in English just in case – I had the name of the beach out by one letter but it took her that long to realise that I was looking for Palheirao and not Palheiro –

In the Irish bar, the tv is showing a Copa do Brasil match and one team has ‘IRA’ on their sleeves – hah – and the soundsystem is playing an awful version of Dearg Doom – its not The Horslips guitar, for sure – 
whiskey. Ardbeg. Ardhu?
the rest are whisky. Glenfiddich. Johnnie Walker. Glenlivet.

‘Did you know the Korean for ‘heaven’ is the Japanese for ‘sage-brush smoke’? I can well believe it. I love the smell of burning sage.

where to begin, with the plants, the planets and their effects?
their parts and how to use them?
roast the roots and pulverise. make infusion of the leaves and flowers. poultice.

‘But surely Irish must be somewhat like English?’
I was asked this, in sweet tones. I am offended for both my race and his.
(wait… does that even make sense?)

At least here is Jamesons, Powers, Paddy, Kilbeggan, Dundalgan. Tullamore Dew. Bushmills. 4 on optics –
the nice man behind the bar puts on Sinead O Connor.
the Cliffs of Moher are 1 mile away but Ireland itself is 3,000 – still, you know you can only enter Ireland through the nine waves – and you could travel 33,000 and only see 8 – 
the sparkler in the pina colada is beautiful, but it makes my eyes water – but then so did the Book of the Lover, earlier –
there is an old dusty acfordion, on the wooden shelves next to the gumball machine and a whiskey jug – I feel sad that it hasnt been played for years and is probably out of tune –
there are yellowed old notes, written in the pub, thumbtacked to the wall –
‘A Smith and Wesson beats four aces’
‘Fools come and go but enemies accumulate’
Fairytale of New York comes on and we all try to sing along – but without Kirsty McColl it doesnt sound right (isnt that weird?)

Limoux —-> Foix. the guy who has just finished lightyears in front of the rest blesses himself and smiles widely – (Tour de France)

see, the ink on the page dries at its own pace – it was Svenja who reopened the pleasures of walking slowly in Porto – my father had always walked fast – eats fast, then waits until the ice-cream has melted before dessert –
the onion eaters, yes, i want to repeat – whose book? an unusual anecdote about offering hospitality – or it being expected – in Albania they tell me this – an Albanian must offer hospitality, it is an unwritten code – we were given a place to stay on someones rooftop and when Stromec stood up in the morning to stretch, naked, he amused the neighbourwoman – her very large grin – in the Bank of the West tennis, the difference between a finalist and the champion is £43,000… now where is Venus?

hah, the symbols in the toilets for gents and ladies, the lady holds a handbag, the gent holds a cigarette – Things that Cannot be Compared –

it grows dark and in the second Irish pub it comes out that I am Irish: ‘ah, you are at home then!’ Maria says.
yeah. ha. always. everywhere i stand, no matter where and when i place myself on this revolving planet I make my home –

now that i am 30 i have realised i am insane – possessed by a twin mind – sees and hears things that are not there – did Anthony Redmond do that? was my fracture with reality before that? was i crazy before the age of 18?
probably. slightly. i could have healed.
i could still heal.
‘he has no hold over me now’ – well you might not think he does or want him to do but he probably does –
now that i m 30, i have 12 more years of being taken advantage of – not every moment, not every year, clearly – but when i was 18 that was the 1st time someone had used me so recklessly –
where is he now?