As part of our quarantine anecdote open call, we received this text from the artist Pierre Valls who generously sent us an account of one, or many, of his days in confinement. We chose to share it as a sample of the diversity of domestic dynamics that we’re being privy to as we think about realities instead of stereotypes. A single man living alone, his routine and his thoughts are also the Alma de Casa.
Thank you Pierre.
It’s 6 in the morning, I resist opening my eyes but I know fine well that there’s no other choice but to get up. But before stepping on the ground with my right foot, I always try to remember my dreams, in vain. There are only a few chopped up bits of dreams. Perhaps the most significant of these dream memories are the beads of sweat that try to free themselves from the folds of my neck. They jump ship after days of travelling with no direction. My knees are weak, they don’t yet know if they’ll bear another day with the weight of this heavy and ungrateful body. There is no other. Already the sun’s rays let me know that today will be a good day, not like that other day that was without reason, a day flattened by the dull grey sky. Everything about today says it’ll be a different day. Today is the day! I tell myself it has to be. Like every day with excess energy, I start cleaning my apartment. I water the plants and throw away all the bank receipts accumulated in the corner of the shelf. Why is it that I keep receipts? Could I make a claim for something that I already ate? Well, a few hours have passed without having showered. I listen to Barry White constantly, sensual and positive at the same time. It’s 2 o’clock. I earned myself an aperitif, a beer with some anchovy olives, it reminds me of the Mediterranean air, I feel something of my house in every sip. Now it’s time to eat, hunger came without warning, with suspicion I think. Pasta with tomato, onion and cheese is what’s left in the pantry. It‘s gotten late. My knees ask me to rest, between the swaying from the kitchen to the dining room and from the dining room to the kitchen, my unfaithful knee bones ask me to stop. The truth is that with this sun, it suits me to lie down on the bed and let the air caress me. The nap is the time of day that is perhaps best spent, an absent time, napping doesn’t hold the same responsibility that sleeping at night has. At night one has to recover, take a break for fear of the toll that the morning brings. The nap is impartial, it knows that the pleasure is momentary and it gifts it to you, it doesn’t demand anything from you. You see! It’s 5pm and I’m in a bad mood. Well I can’t say that after a nap, which is also like a good glass of mezcal, it leaves you something to remember without really knowing what it was. It’s late, I’m working on my thesis. I sigh because it’s a struggle, not that bad but it leaves some tightness in my stomach. It’s 8pm, I don’t feel like writing anymore, or reading, I watch some news, just a bit because you never find out everything that’s happening, you get an idea, maybe an opinion, but nothing else. I go to bed, it’s 9pm. Yes, they’ll say that this chap goes to bed early. But remember that a few sentences ago I mentioned that I woke up at 6 in the morning. Well, it’s time to sleep. Maybe I’ll be reckless with my erotic thoughts, I have them because the body wants what the body wants. I masturbate, maybe with little desire but I owe it to my tired knees. I throw the sperm soaked tissue on the floor where it’ll stick and tomorrow I’ll wonder why I always do that same thing. I fall asleep, I try not to dream… It’s 6 in the morning, I resist opening my eyes but I know fine well that there’s no other choice but to get up. But before stepping on the ground with my right foot, I always try to remember my dreams, in vain. There are only a few chopped up bits of dreams. Perhaps the most significant of these dream memories are the beads of sweat that try to free themselves from the folds of my neck. They jump ship after days of travelling with no direction…
