“… and the eternal stars above us still shone coldly down.”

The term is almost through. There’s a lot of stuff to be sorted and stored. More to be sorted and just shredded.  And perhaps there’s a story to tell.

Of moments lived. Prayerflags colouring high mountain passes. Snapping in a breeze that carries unexpected blessings out over the world.  Things seen in dawn light: heard through the earlier darkness. Thoughts like fraying silk in the wind.  Callings.  Caffè from a Dorsoduro sidestreet bar, sipped in a garden near the Salute.  Knowing for then, all was well.

Of moments lost. Missed bridges, unseen calli, hidden gardens passed unnoticed.  A casa where a doge may have sat and schemed. The rio terrà of loss.  Fondamentas walked in vain.  Echoing absences. Disappointments – like flags on the wind – rattling and snapping around the empty sestieri .  Spun out towards those cold stars but eventually coming to rest on Zanzibar.  Of sotoportico of the heart. Of becoming abhorrent. And the tragedy of seeing this clearly. Of  September light off the lagoon.  Standing watching the motoscafo plough out towards San Servolo and memories of less fraught times.

Of acceptance. And of beginning to unbecome.

Which leads to now; much later, and this reconnecting with a Flat White world.  Reaching for voice. Searching the digital spaces for whatever it was that was misread or overlooked. (Re)testing the assuaging touch:

…have you been making it in through the weather. Or have you stayed put in the warmth of home & hearth?

… Even if this one doesn’t prove to have wings… there will be others.

… Eric Clapton, 10 May; Belfast?   😉

There may be a moon tonight.  But it’s shrouded in clouds above a place in turn wreathed in silent, freezing fog.  And to the north and west they say there will again be heavy snow.  Like Joyce’s: falling faintly through the universe like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead. Throwing up thoughts of  Calvino’s wolf and hare:  Only the expanse of the snow could be seen, white as this page.

White and flat. A page has its own secret topographies. The story deep within.  The brooding turn.  While all else is at best flags in the  breeze, rags & jackets, forty-coated about the self to staunch the digital silence.  To deflect the longed-for signal.  To atone and to absolve.

Advertisements