Casa Robino

Golden corn fills my stomach as it rushes past, feet peddling frantically. Sometimes, the feeling of fat biting muscles in surrender is soothing. Far from a walrus, but the war against the body is greater than the one I fight against myself.Something shouts. A tree, perhaps. In French. The juxtaposition of my penis and corn perhaps isn't complementary, thinking of corn and myself naked in the mirror. I see no one and zoom on. The realisation that I myself have been shouting for a while fails to perturb me, how good it is to cry out into the fading light! Something rarely granted to the full man. Look how many weapons I have at my disposal! And how heavy they are. Those that are sensitive have no use in the art of war. The war, o' it never ends.The hill rises. First time I did this, I stood to rest five times. Since then, nadda, such was my dejection at the imitation of a body I possesed. America pumped me with cornstarch, trans fats (all illegal here), cannonballs - the bloody battles sink into you, even if thousands of miles away. There are clouds over the hill, big monstrous things like giant whales. When I have a roof, rain fills me with a sense of wonder at its nourishment. It will feed the tomatoes that enter my belly. Too long and the rain turns to acid, the house turns into a cell. Regardless, a sense of contentment arises inside me, and air begins to pound into my lungs as the hill gapes before me in my ascent. A bee passes in front of me. It looks like it's made of honey. A punishment from the queen bee for refusing to fuck. It stays with my pace for just a moment, then skirts off to the side.Goats with yellow tags in their ears. I think of the hollocaust. A shudder rides through me. I wonder if I've ever eaten their cheese.The highest point in the departément. A man from a nearby town told Virginie that when he was a child, he was told to go to a high where the air was better, for his asthama. The doctor suggested here.The nucleur  power station beyond pours smoke into the air. I imagine it exploding. If Chernobyl could reach Wales, surely here I could develop telepathy, or a be engulfed in great orange flames..at last, a hot climate!I think of stopping to write in a field. I think of painting my thoughts into great worlds. I let them come in and out, hissing and purring. I wonder how Virginie will be when I return. The carnaval no longer penetrates as deeply. This past week, a revelation began to sing softly in my ears, gave a certain element of magical strength to my stides. I realised I can't be this sensitive for the rest of my life, and with it a certain wisdom, a killing of whatever fantasical relationship ideals I had. Yes, I need spontaneosity as I need air, passion as much as I need a place to rest my head at night. And so it was that I became unafflicted. The both of us, it seems. The stretching of a human being only goes so far. Flexible? A ballerina of emotions I'm not. Without expectations, there are no disappointments. Without ideals, the chains break. And for the first time, a warm resignation. The war, here, is over.I smile as I begin to coast down the hill, my weary feet resting momentarily. A caterpillar crosses before me. I swerve to avoid it. I turn my head and watch its trail. On the blue ridge highway in Virginia, I walked so high up a mountain road that I was amongst clouds. Every five minutes it began to pour with rain and stop almost instantly, leaving me soaked and surprised. And, I had to walk very, very trepdatiously as there were caterpillars swarming beneath my feet as if it were their home on the slick, glistening, black road.Don Juan Matus and Carlos Castaneda were walking along a road and Carlos spotted a snail before hil. Fearing that the snail could be crushed, he bent down to pick it up. Don Juan stopped him and asked -'Who are you to think you can help anything? Who are you ot change its direction, its meeting with its potential maker? Who are you to say it wasn't supposed to be crushed, that this isn't its path?'I leave the catarpillar to cross the road on its own, skid off a side road into a field and sit to write.The snarl of frustrated desire no longer rears its ugly head, for you kill what is unable to propell you to live at a greater height. I catch drops of rain upon my tongue and my writing becomes damp and crinkled. Yes, I am alive, again.