• Michael Noctor

Going Home

I sat on the plane as it approached my beloved spiritual home, feeling all of my fifty-seven years at once as if each year was taking its turn to kick me in the bollix, the worse the year the harder the kick and wondering how many more times I would venture to Málaga before I die, not knowing I would make the same trip a week later and now ten weeks later I am on the eve of making the trip again and thinking I need to make this trip a thousand times more before I die or at least before I become so decrepit that I should be sliding into a grave rather than flying (sitting on a plane) to my spiritual home.

I think one of the reasons I feel so at home there is because I am, like Pablo, an artist; not a Cubist, an artist, with the belief that I paint more with my words than Pablo did with his brushes and while that seems an outrageous claim, if I didn't believe that there wouldn't be much point in writing another word. Rather look at one of Picasso paintings than read one of Noctor's books?


I'll blog more from my spiritual home.

Michael ... Peace Out