i fell in love again with books. i was walking, i'd forgotten all about them, summoned like a fool. i found myself there for hours, forgot all about my plans, oscar wilde and my god, james joyce - i once tried to read ulysses and it defeated me like mustard - but there i was sea sick and tingling with finnegan's wake, it was too heavy to carry with me anyhow and I settled on dubliners, but have you ever read the picture of dorian gray? it has caught me on fire, i cannot put it aside for a moment. il piccolo principe. i have since learned the word for "to swallow" and also "to draw" (remember the elephant in the belly of the snake). just like playing guitar, only the books of children will do.
the beach was grand, we saw fish and medusa's all mauve and iridescent with stripes and floating feathers, and upon a great vista we closed a lock and threw the key into the ocean, an ode to friendships and passing flames. i left monticchiello with such sadness for misunderstandings, i miss it, but how i ache for october, for muddy fog, the salt of the sea has dried me like an apricot.
inside, a pearl of fear. resisting inevitabilities. bits of dirt are falling through fingers, there won't be longer much left. there/here, always a restlessness, i cannot run. sameness is a prison, can one not forever keep to the business of inventing things?
