Last 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.
This 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.
I 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.
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?
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.