For Toni Morrison – who used the word well.
The sun crests the pines dark in silhouette – and limns the rocks under the clear water of the bay.
Full face mask affords a vertiginous panorama of fish shoals feeding on weed, surfing the undertow – busy in unselfconscious certainty in the flickering light.
Floating supine above, the woman revels in the silent coolness of the other world.
A sudden downward rush of thrusting water and energy to her left panics a thrashing scramble for the shore – from where, aeons later, feet on solid rock – she looks back.
It is a cormorant. Diving and bobbing up with full beak in a patch of silver, illuminated.
The sun strengthens.
She is no longer welcome here.
Unknowing with Intent
or – “The Organisation of Surprise”
She organises her days to maximise the potential for purposeful links-
Where by juxtaposing a thought next to a smell or an exchange and having the means to lay that down correctly, immediately
Is the goal.
She plays every day in this way – expecting to catch herself on the route back.
Alchemy is possible here – and sometimes occurs.
It is for these moments that she does what she does.
Her life is orchestrated for her fix.
Ich bin ein Berliner! Half a duck if you please, and a pint of Malteser. In the Turtle restaurant, under the pipes, which are above the ground. And the sun is OUT! Fortified by kaffeekuchen, flitting through the Tiergarten, walrus moustaches aplenty. Brandenburg Gate, Unter den Linden, Schlesisches Tor, try saying that five times quickly. Perched on a giant bronze woman, Ramones playing, burgers, trains filing by. Over to Kreuzberg to look at all the lovely things, endless walking, haggling over a paper bag, ceiling art for some, strange masks for others. Down south for a vernissage and a kebab, then subterranean jazz, then bed. Mauerpark the next day, sampling the Flohmarkt wares, a glimpse of the GDR from a Trabi tent at the Kultur Brauerei, Brexit monologue, then the papers and flammkuchen at the Kant café.
Everything seems to have reduced.
The expansive largess; the open-arm generosity of invitation and rencontres.
Where is the communal dance? The joyous hallelujah??
I remember being part of the new rave in the eighties. That was when the rot set in although we could not see it through the curtains of snakes and waterfalls of Champagne!
Do people scurry now – more than before?
Furtively leave tiny spaces to sit all day in tiny booths, earplugs in?
Blind and deaf ?
I think they do. But not blind. Not deaf.
They dance inside, linked to a global tribe that, whilst not as effusive, dances with purpose as they bend to change.
I lofty. I lily lean softly to the right.
To watch you write.
Bored, I will my gorgeous orange ellipse petals to open wider, stretch higher.
I beautiful. I brighten your day and that is my purpose.
When you pause, lift up to gaze vacantly around. Thinking?
I contemptuous you.
You – here for a long time, filling time.
Me – blooming brilliantly, filling my short existence with a languid but focused energy that you will never have.
I have a man who takes the time to come back home having set out to work – because he found roses.
I have a man who, every day, tells me I’m beautiful.
I have known this man for 38 years and our life is a cliche.
And it is wonderful😃
Hiking at Castellaras yesterday, I noticed that I had to keep my eyes on the path for fear of stumbling. It was only when we stopped that there was the opportunity to lift the gaze to the white rock cutting the blue sky and to marvel at the view.
As I was deciding whether to keep my gaze micro or macro, an enormous Eagle, flashing yellow, glided down a copse just ahead.
It was magnificent. It was fleeting. I would have missed it had I been looking at the sky.
Slapping waves, shlurping sea – slamming caffeine.
Lopping swimmers in swelling sea.
Hopping yogis in silhouette.
Lapping waves, sipping thoughts, sifting coffee.
Floating torsos, bobbing limbs – echoes of whispers
Slap, lap, slap, lap…
Veiled sun and gossamer air.
Soft, soft, slap.
War ships on the horizon, all pointing in the same direction as the shower rains down to my right.
All anticipation on the raked, smooth sand.