And here I am again, in my predicament, divorcing a man I love and who loves me, just for the sake of the temptation that the City of Men represents to me. We will find a solution, he says, with infinite patience and compassion that, I suppose, is objectively not to be expected from a man, any man. But what solution is to be found?
Yeah, I know what I need, I have written about it extensively. And what tempts me is a plurality of men, all of them attractive at a glance, but most probably unfitting my purpose, unavailable for stable relationship, lacking financial and symbolic resources. Perhaps even unable to offer such a good nikah as I would expect from them, for age, experience, success and my fertile imagination made me unrealistic.
It would be wiser to return to my work, write articles and books, about Andalusian arts of love if I must, but at least competent and well placed in serious journals and editing houses. Yet perhaps to follow that wisdom and to put it into practice would mean to commit again the same essential error I committed along all my life. To postpone love, or to treat it as a topic of the past, an intellectual adventure, a game of imagination. Perhaps this is what love essentially is. The rest are unrealistic expectations.
I think about returning to my old hobby of writing erotic stories. I wonder if I still have those I did years ago, about Arabs, and the desert, and horses, and falcons, and the city of Amsterdam before I came here for the first time with my husband. Anyway, I think I remember them, up to certain juicy expressions I regarded as particularly well turned at the time. Obviously my English is much better now than it was thence.
Is love performance or narration?