MY STORY

I am of my native country, but I live in Catalonia, I live in spain, I live in the European Union. I belong to an increasing set of people who I guess we call from 'Tarragelona' (no, this isn't fetch😂 I'm not trying to coin a new word*) but it is people whose life is centered mostly in Barcelona but we live in Tarragona. Barcelona is no longer viable as a place to have dignified housing unless you're super rich or you live with your parents. Tarragona on the other hand is still doable. Yes, you are an hour from Barcelona but you actually can have a decent place to live and, as you live there, you slowly start to realize it's fookin amazing. But watch out... More and more people are starting to realize this... and by the time you decide to come here it will have already become too expensive. Move now!   *I'm a liar... yes I am!

Today I'm taking revenge on the rain by eating a lot. If I can't go outside then I will fill my inside with every single carb I can find under this roof. I tell people I love the rain cos I'm a romantic, but it's just because I fucking love food and it gives me an excuse not to go out running. I hate exercise. I just pretend to like it. The only thing I really like is food. I want to eat cake. And pizza. And ice cream. And then a large burger with fries. And then I'll get bigger and bigger and nobody will want me then social oblivion will finally arrive. Thank God. And eventually they'll just have to Take Me Out of the house by taking the window out and using the crane But I don't care Just as long as I've got food. My only true love. Not surprisingly the rain is indifferent to my protest. I fucking hate dieting.    

Wintering by Sylvia Plath This is the easy time, there is nothing doing. I have whirled the midwife's extractor, I have my honey, Six jars of it, Six cat's eyes in the wine cellar, Wintering in a dark without window At the heart of the house Next to the last tenant's rancid jam and the bottles of empty glitters ---- Sir So-and-so's gin. This is the room I have never been in This is the room I could never breathe in. The black bunched in there like a bat, No light But the torch and its faint Chinese yellow on appalling objects ---- Black asininity. Decay. Possession. It is they who own me. Neither cruel nor indifferent, Only ignorant. This is the time of hanging on for the bees--the bees So slow I hardly know them, Filing like soldiers To the syrup tin To make up for the honey I've taken. Tate and Lyle keeps them going, The refined snow. It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers. They take it. The cold sets in. Now they ball in a mass, Black Mind against all that white. The smile of the snow is white. It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen, Into which, on warm days, They can only carry their dead. The bees are all women, Maids and the long royal lady. They have got rid of the men, The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors. Winter is for women ---- The woman, still at her knitting, At the cradle of Spanis walnut, Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think. Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas Succeed in banking their fires To enter another year? What will they taste of, the Christmas roses? The bees are flying. They taste the spring.