I remain confused about the position of other people in my life... my family, my friends, my colleagues.
Lately I've allowed two friendships to become somewhat damaged: one because a dear friend's husband is going through a rough time, and I have little respect for how he's handling it – thus, in an admittedly ruthless way, I'm tending to cut them both off by judging him as not worth listening to; and I've hardly communicated with another close friend who paid almost no attention to my illness over the past two months, thus winning my indignant anger and resentment. In both cases I am unquestionably judging, and mercilessly – I'm unwilling to forgive one for being amazingly foolish, the other for being careless of our friendship (admittedly over a long period of time; I have many justifications for my behavior, for my judgments).
Then, today, plans to go back to America to see relatives and friends at a yearly reunion are foundering in a morass of people too overwhelmed for me to visit them, plus a suddenly added requirement that I visit my mother – a requirement that I understand; but no one seems to realize that spending approximately $1,500 to travel for seven hours, stay alone in a hotel for a couple of days, and comfort my mother for a matter of four or five hours seems, frankly, a plan that is both stressful and expensive. But I should, of course, go....
It's not that I don't want to go see my mother. But it seems so bizarre, so inadequate, to make the long, expensive trip alone, to stay in a hotel in suburban Virginia, with no probable way to see anyone else in the family, or other friends. Perhaps I'm thrown by the inability of other family members, who have lived with their own families for years, to register the sheer bleakness of making dutiful intercontinentall trips alone, as opposed to sharing them with someone.
This afternoon Chris, Patrick, Simone and I sat around at a tapas bar while it rained, talking and eating and drinking and enjoying ourselves. It was fun at the time: but after coming home to get e-mails and phone calls from my family, I felt differently about it – or, perhaps, felt as though I should feel differently about it. Because, of course, these people are not mostly close friends; so they shouldn't be important, I shouldn't be spending time with them? I shouldn't value this, perhaps; and this whole trip is a ridiculous indulgence, and now I can manage to feel thoroughly guilty for spending money to come to this seaside resort instead of spending the money to take care of relatives, to make life easier for those who are under stress. And... well... or... but....
As it has stopped raining, across the street, a group of cheerful young Spaniards are sitting on a staircase, talking animatedly well past midnight. Are they friends? Are they family? Do they matter to each other, do they need each other?
Are they having fun? – are they really having fun? – and: is it a good thing, is it a good enough thing, if they are having fun?...
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