The End of the Affair

This is the end of the year and there's very little to do. I miss being busy, don't know what to do with my time. Reading, yes, I've read two books in two days, but nothing that special. I'm postponing Saramago, leaving it till it gets really necessary. Tomorrow, perhaps, after a walk.
My other faorite activity saves me. Again, I watched The End of the affair.
Fim de ano, pouca coisa pra fazer, falta de hábito de ficar assim, à toa. What a awonderful film. The book is astonishing, but the film, oh, what a delicious thing. And I'm not even a big fan of Fiennes, but Juliane captivates me more and more.
I'm not sure about what it is that makes me so attached to it. Is it the passion, the lust, the dilemma...
"love doesn't end just because we don't see each other" Sarah tells Bendrix. True. But it can really hurt.
Well, I took the kids to the cinema last week for my son's birthday, there were 8 guys. Pre adolescents they call themselves. The film was Madagascar 2. New shopping center in town. New film, less good than the first one, but funny.
And the thrill of having everybody talking at the same time. Just what I call a happy day. Something to have once in a year.

Fatherhood

Yes Bill Cosby is someone who can deal with this and still make fun of it. I can't. There's lots of things I would like to say about my own father. He was wonderful, always there for me, but never too visible. I could do anything I wanted and he would be there for me whenever I needed. I just want to know what I did wrong. Why wasn't I able to find another one like mine?
How could I? It doesn't depend on my own will. And it's not easy.
Maybe that's just because the weekend is ending. Or it's father's day.
Well, let me try to think about it any other time.

Her anxiety - Yeats

Isn't it true?


Her Anxiety

Earth in beauty dressed
Awaits returning spring.
All true love must die,
Alter at the best
Into some lesser thing.
Prove that I lie.

Such body lovers have,
Such exacting breath,
That they touch or sigh.
Every touch they give,
Love is nearer death.
Prove that I lie.

William Butler Yeats

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