We actually got some snow here the other night. Not what I was expecting in the south of Spain but I’m not complaining. The mountains look beautiful with their sparkly white peaks, especially when the sun is setting and the sky goes dusky pink. I want to take photos but I know they’ll never look as good as in real life. Someone ought to invent a camera where what you see through the lens is what comes out on the photo.
I took the picture on the right a few weeks ago. There was a lot of sand in the air and as the sun was setting it looked like a volcano had erupted and molten lava and ash were spilling across the sky. Not that you can tell from this photo where the dramatic colours have somehow been bleached out. It still turned out better than my photo of the full moon though, which looks more like a melting blob of lard sliding across a frying pan.
Since I can’t get replicate the wonderful things that I see in photos, I’ve been jotting down descriptions in my notebook in case I can work them into a short story later. I often do this without thinking too much about it and when I read over my notes again later (if I can decipher my terrible handwriting) then I am surprised at the crazy things I’ve written. For example: “the sky is the colour of chewitts”, “the fine red dust filling the car like smoke smelled faintly of coconut”, “the fringe of prickly pears on the cacti look like fat sausage fingers.” What is this? My subconscious is obviously obsessed with food.
Actually, I am rather suffering from my own bad cooking at the moment. I’m afraid my menu for writers was not a joke and I do live off toast and pasta. I have tried to make pancakes since I’ve been here but they got stuck to the pan and tore to pieces when I tried to turn them over and my attempt at an omelet was aborted at the last moment and the yucky mess salvaged as scrambled eggs. I never thought I would say this but I am looking forward to going home at Christmas to my mother’s cooking.