Saturday, 23 July 2016

In Avignon. Part 3

I need to ask you to use your imagination. You see, these scripts are incomplete at the moment. They belong in a comic, or whispered in the darkness late at night.

I want to tell you about a dream that I had about ten years ago. I knew she was my anima, when I woke up. She had black hair, a shy smile and was always a few feet ahead of me.

I don't really believe in an anima. It's the Jungian version of the soul. Men have one, it's always female and God alone knows how this works in an age of intersectionality. 

But I woke up filled with love and loss. I'm starting to imagine that the next third of my life might be reconciliation to that loss. Most people believe in the one, until it goes wrong. Then they stop believing, and get on with it.

Is it possible to believe and believe it is impossible?

Avignon festival feels like Edinburgh Fringe, only the love has not yet disappeared. The fierce competition is absent, as is the comedy. I'm not saying these things are related.

There is a street here named after Artaud. And a bar decorated in zebra stripes on its corner. For obvious reasons, it is the place where I want to drink.

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