01 02 03 Eleanor Greer: disappearances. 04 05 15 16 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 31 32 33

disappearances.

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Who is it that bites at my eyes, who winks at me through the keyhole of the rooftop door and who turns the sky yellow when I round the corner?

I have been back in Madrid for six weeks and have found and moved into my apartment and studio, have begun teaching english conversation and learning how to teach, have started my internship with the Fundaciòn Juan March working with the journals of Fernando Zòbel and am just now getting the hang of it. My days are beautiful, busy and I crave the time to sit down and draw, write letters, read, make sense of all of this. It all hurdles forward and suddenly the distance between "then" and "now" grows. And I am older, more mature, able to handle responsibilities, finances and to be put in charge of things and people. I miss simplicity and yet still find it; find it in the late afternoon when my day is done, find it in Riccardo´s child-like smile as we wearily greet one another for dinner, find it in that winking keyhole, in the words of friends I miss so painfully.

I have been reading Eliot, avoiding the internet and not really listening to music. We are entering fall, globally, and here the leaves crinkle and the wind shifts. Shifting, changes occur, Mary Poppins leaves on that wind and we read of flaming tounges.

It is J. Rose who empties Connecticut water into my dry eyes, the sun who fills the hole of the aluminum door as I climb the stairs and God who turns the empty to yellow with warm breath as I turn onto my street.

And I am still here, un-disappeared and opening up to regurgitate what I am seeing, feeling, doing...just wait.
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