“a writer is a foreign country”—Marguerite Duras
I am having fun
imagining the countries that I am, the half-forgotten languages spoken—or
scratched onto stone—there, the lofty unexplored mountains in the interior, the
seaports bustling with traded goods from all around the world, the grand old
trains that run between the picturesque stations, the untroubled inhabitants
(old as Methuselah, wise as Merlin, perky as Pippi Longstocking flipping
pancakes while her pigtails bob).
There are swans
there, erasing slowly their own trace on water as they go. Filagree butterflies, onyx burros. And in some whitewashed doorway on one
of the islands I can’t quite make out the name of, a bent-tailed cat named
Saturday.
Bookstores with
windowseats, schoolbuses, Roman roads.
Affable seamonsters in the margins, seen in the harbors in months
without “r”s at low tide, rambunctious until lulled by sea shanties or roots reggae
or sometimes local monks perching themselves on the seawall and offering a sequence
of Gregorian chant. Peppers strung
down terra cotta walls, and inner patios luscious with shade where artists
paint away their afternoons, after a lunch of grill-striped vegetable slices
with cold harissa.
Pull out your
passport; come explore.
image: Yehuda Edri Collection
well.
ReplyDeletei like your country.
i sit on my monday morning now saturated in the wonder of foreign senses to me.
you are like a little trip. a little gift.
i imagine you are simply that to people who get to know you in person.
Ah, but some people don't like to travel... Thank you for being one willing to make the journey with me!
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