I just finished Gabriel García Márquez’s posthumous book “Until August” coming out 10 years after his death. He said he didn’t want it to ever be published, but his two suns read it after 10 years and decided it was well worth publishing.
I related to the book in a number of ways – he was by far my favorite author in my lifetime – I was thrilled to read the book he wrote while struggling against memory loss. There is, of course, a literary flap about whether his sons did the right thing, all I can say is I am grateful to them.
(A goddess sculpture Maria made sits on the table where the fish used to be. Life with an artist. Only Maria could create a table like this. Snails are just to the right.)
It was not his best book he has written, but at that point, the only person he recognized was his wife. It was well worth reading, it was clearly a Marquez novel, however abbreviated. Genius is still there, and still can be read. I’m with the sons.
But it also made me sad. I’m 76 and my memory has been declining for the past couple of years, although the experts say it’s quite normal for someone my age, and has not inerrupted my writing or photography. Marquez told his sons that when his memory was finally gone, there would be nothing left.
I hope that doesn’t happen to me.
I got about 6 angry messages today about my typos and saw them just as I put the book down – all of them were angry and cruel – and couldn’t help wondering if either my Dyslexia or memory loss might get worse and make my writing even more difficult. If I overcome the Dyslexia (mostly), I can handle getting over the rest.
There will always be typos, there are actually a lot fewer than they were a couple of years ago. I think people who can’t handle them are not in the right place, for them or me.
The truth is, I never felt more vital or engaged or creative or happy. I’ve never done better work or more good. That’s what I need to focus on, not just another nasty message on social media.
People say my problem is that I share too much and am too open and shouldn’t write about the death of animals here like Suzy and Zip and Simon and Rockey and Orson and Rose.
I will always fight for what I believe, it is essential to who I wish to be. And it is not changing my mind, making me hide or being anything but honest about how I feel. When it comes to animals, this attracts people who can only be described as angry and trauma victims. I choose this life, I love this life. I get plenty of praise.
That will never change, that is what my wiring and my blog is all about – a life, not cute puppies and cats and sheep. In our world, somebody dislikes everything anybody writes. It’s call life, and I am living it. You don’t have to be open to be targeted in America in 2024. It’s just life.
The blog has never been better or stronger, and I have never been happier as a writer than I am today. My love for Maria is nothing less than a miracle. And it’s because I am open and try to be authentic. That can’t happen if I hide and lie about my life.
(Photographers often tell me not to photogoraph telephone wires in landscape photos, but they are part of our lives, they should be there.)
I don’t fully understand the anger people have execept these days, but people in America seem to be getting angrier, like a volcano waiting to erupt. The nasty messages don’t really both me, but the cruelty and hostility in the air all around are disheartening. I’ll just keep on doing more good for as long as I can.
I have to go inside to stay grounded. Perhaps when the volcano erupts, the anger will recede.
I went into a funk and went for a walk around the farm, along with the Black Dog and my white one. Then I came into the house and sat on the sofa with Maria’s head on my shoulder. It was a beautiful thing.
Happiness, I am coming to realize, is function of compassion and kindness. Love too. The more of that I give, the more I get. If I didn’t have compassion in my heart, I wouldn’t have any happiness at all.
I had a tough Leica Akademie lesson this morning, I have a lot to learn. I’m getting it bit by bit, but it’s a lot of work. I sometimes wonder why I am taking it on.
(Apple tree in the pasture, dusk.)
I think it was always in me, waiting to come out. Life is better now.
I can’t but help noticing that the people with little compassion or empathy are neither kind nor happy. I think it’s really true. Without compassion, there wasn no happiness for me. Now, I am understanding what happiness is, and the more compassion I feel, the happier I am.
This has been one of the most important struggles and challenges of my life. I fear I’ll always be working on it.
I did what I always do, I went out with my camera, Zinnia on one side, Zip on the other, my two amigos. And then came in to write.
I said some words to Marquez and thanked him for the wonderful hours he gave me reading his books. And then I began to feel better.
I took some different kinds of photos. Instead of using my bird and nature camera on birds, I used it on nature and the inside of the farm house, trying to capture the magic of Maria.
Maria is a compassion witch (the good kind). It goes wherever she goes, and wherever she goes, I want to be. Wherever Maria is, is a happy place. I can’t ever get to low when I can look up and see her face.
(Robin, our youngest sheep. She’ll get shorn soon.)
(My reading lamp in the living room.)
Rain Bird in the window.
Zinnia at my feet.
