What Am I Doing Here

DSC02277Last night the thunder clapped

the rain sneezed

the cold flail its hands

the wild animals in the forest coughed

and I closed the window and pulled the covers to my neck.

DSC02276 DSC02279This morning the fog lounged and sauntered over the mountain range elegantly as a bride’s laced veil.

I could hear the patter of my heart.  I could hear the earth’s chatter.

I knew the smell of morning and the call of life.

My eyes searched for something more tangible, a green sweetness, contained as the dates I suck each morning.

Moving further, I stopped to observe old tools carefully collected and arranged — an installation — the aesthetic functionality of discarded implements.


DSC02278I am committed to this time.

I am consumed by this project.

I am covetous for the right words.

I pause and stare seeking to reveal

what I need to know…what I already know.

Heading to breakfast, a worm drying in the fleeting sun solicits my gaze

I remember as a child digging for worms in my mother’s garden.

As a woman planting my own garden, I would hold the worms gently between middle finger and thumb and place then strategically back into the earth.DSC02280

Preparing to fish, I would observe the worm’s body as the hook entered its translucent skin. Do fish really like worms?  What do they taste like? Perhaps another time I might fry some.

I walk the path, moving up and down, seeking the right angle to aim my camera. What did I do before these other lenses?  Do I trust my eyes and my memory to see and record?

Like a starved child, I follow the fog, feeling  a hand slip softly into my blouse — the memory of desire and attraction.

Murder and loss could happen here, unrecorded.   How many and for how long?  Who is counting?  Who is missing?

DSC02272 DSC02276

But this is not a land where mayhem happens.   This is a place of creation and reflection

Here in the mountain, gripped with cypresses and olive trees, where howling and baying rebound like a ball tide to a pole being banged by a bat in the hands of a bored boy, there is only possibility on possibilities, a scent of trespass, a longing for surprised discovery.

The mountain heaves. The fog prances and the heart locates its wings.

Around the bend I am reminded of the surprised birthday party, more than 30 years ago, that Pamela hosted for me.

The red reminds me of the deep desire I had for a man I knew was a philanderer  but his skin was chocolate. I was not yet twenty-one, already married and had left my husband.

Red is not the color of desire.  Red is lust better left untouched — not consumed. Red is the way into tomorrow.


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