This past weekend (ce weekend) the local theatre group performed The Shoemaker's Prodigious Wife (La Sauvetiere Prodigieuse), a work by Federico García Lorca. For the past 10 years since I moved into the area I have done most of the decorations for each production. And dutifully, I also film them with my video camera (camescope). This year, I feel that my heart wasn't really into the decoration (le decor). I don't know why. No particular reason, I just couldn't connect. I have been feeling full of alienation and anguish (angoisse) these days. Its hard to even know why. As they say suffering (la souffrance) is a just human trait but each morning I battle with paintings like they are small dragons, and me, their meal. Often (souvent), it seems impossible, but then, one continues, what else to do? The pleasure and satisfaction does arrive eventually on its own terms. Beckett once said (which I love):
"Fail again, fail even better!"
Lorca, it seems, was full of anguish and depression too, if for different reasons. He lived with a dark secret (secret sombre) in a Catholic country intolerant of his homesexuality. He died young, murdered (assassiné) by the Nationlists, and its said, that his body (son cadavre) is still buried by the side of the road near Grenada marked by a small sign only.
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