At the end of
summer five years ago I referred to whiling away the hours in a hammock—and in Mallorca
after the first writers' workshop I did just that, hanging suspended in the
late golden September air under Aleppo pines, the sound of goat bells carried
up to me from the valley.
Cradled,
rocked—letting go the earth—confiding myself to weighlessness, an insubstantial
element—all strange to me, and very hard at first to do, though mine is one of
the air signs ("I was not born under a rhyming planet"). Heaven, I found, when I gave myself up to it.
And now again the siren
song of the hammock is calling, though I have nothing to hang one from. I have become earthbound again.
image: Henri Lebasque (French, 1865-1937): Le Pradet, Young Woman in a Hammock (Nono), 1923, I Require Art
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