Unambiguously, not being at Les Pierres to me feels like embarking on an adventure into a familiar yet obliterated world, where my normal routines are redeemed based on a rebounded recollection only because of the promise of an as swift as possible return but undiminished firmly guided by my common sense, so dictated by fatalism and moodiness. These rare jaunts have become even more anomalous after years of only partially involuntary pandemic confinement, which in turn has intensified the impact on my general consciousness: where I need to be to feel at ease.
For Ivory, unfailingly more to the point than I am, these feelings often go hand in hand with a Calvinist guilt, vigorously embedded in these genes that usually force him to acknowledge encouraging compliments with a distinct inconsistency, seemingly incapable of just being happy without pointing out possible or even likely cracks in his cope of heaven, which is why his last return, having spent some alone time away mostly networking at business parties, was kind of a turning point in all ways but one: he never comes home empty handed.
In the many conversations that befell him it was persistently indicated how well he is doing, how he has made all the right choices in life, but quite against his normal routine, however, he proudly told me he had managed to suppress his tendency to trivialize and just nodded in agreement or opted for a clear ‘Yes, indeed’. Finally coming home to the quietness of Les Pierres and a married life dutifully waiting even surpassed these personal alterations, luring him to write about it on social media while tempting providence into blocking our sewage, an annoying but solvable inconvenience, and killing our internet completely, a longer lasting punishment well into its second week now.
The most sinister perquisite of Ivory’s travels revealed itself when he was pretty much settled back into his old praxis, chaperoned by the obscene amount of beauty that dominates Les Pierres this time of year, but even though we clearly were beaten on a finish line, only five days before my next vaccination appointment, I won’t give the Rona the leading role in our stories it never had.