How to convey the chalky whiteness of her skin; the tones of rock, slowly cooling lava. But for the time being I sigh and gaze round at hidden groves of olive, fig and orange.
My mind has circled back to her question, because it had no efficient form or coherence. What did she really want? The line between my data and her interpretation looked ragged and thin. I could smell the sulfurous odor of my fringe reflection of ridicule.
I am delighted to think that those who live there, including her, carry a tramp-steamer gloom. It hangs over everything (where dates and figs were supposed to once grow).
“I knocked repeatedly with the bronze knocker to make sure I would be heard. At last, soft footfalls approached and a quizzical face suspiciously opened the portal just a crack, wanting to keep me out. It was the old serving woman of the house, a shadow in a square shawl and an apron, whose footsteps were barely a whisper.” (from ‘Conjieso que he vivido: Memorias’, Pablo Neruda)
Like the wing of an albatross, each year she tries to take a photograph of me, sitting around a table laden with runnels and drain-pipes.
“Imagination and wonder - these strange cultural automatons. It is true that the consumer, both monastic and secular, live in the same visual space, but perception with intuitive analysis resides within the minority of a minority.” (page 469)
I think beauty is not just a physical experience, but a psychological one as well. We all tend to think that asphodels should not be picked, but using pieces of bright colored curtain-material to clean your hands first is recommended. Research tells us that perception of what is deemed physically attractive and unattractive is prompted by a sense of heights and depths.
Looking at each other, she and I felt slowly and anxiously like intonations dispersed by time. I imagined myself surprised to see us, but she was always busy, burrowing into the sand eating beef and dry biscuits.
“Italy's earth holds the voices of its ancient poets deep within itself, where it is purest. Walking on the soil of its fields, passing through parks where the water sparkles, going over the sands of its small blue ocean, I felt as if I were stepping on diamond-like substances, hidden accumulations of crystal, all the luster stored up by the centuries. Italy gave European poetry form, sound, grace, and rapture; she pulled it out of its early formlessness, out of its coarseness dressed up in sackcloth and armor.” (from ‘Conjieso que he vivido: Memorias’, Pablo Neruda)
running the whole length of the horizon...