Friday, December 18, 2009


The pages in my journal flipped like white curtains flying out over the small squared tunnel of an Italian street. A quiet place of little children in sandals and mama's gathered around trading prior day's gossip from between squirming deeper into their black shawls.

It was a pale sun-bricked road, made for wooden cart wheels and the iron shod feet of horses, holding percussion for the pale blue sea breezing from a distance. The sort of lane named for the sheen of leaves after a spring storm, or perhaps sprigs of freshly picked olive.

From out behind black shutters, old men stretch open their homes, holding their windows for the world without, caught by a brief upward glance from down in the street. Unless one were to take a seat on a foot worn stoop, and to look hard for the meanings in a yellow and white mottled wall, to see time chip away the bones of little square houses, no amount of looking is much more than a fleeting glance.

I smiled at the sea, held my flopping hat down to the top of my head and forgot about somewhere else. The cooling breeze from the Mediterranean seemed to brighten out stars from evening eyes. I took a seat within one doorway, receiving a smile from a lumpy cheeked child too overjoyed in everything to notice the tangled wild hair sailing behind her. Looking down, I wrote the day's date atop a blank journal page.

I stood, stretched myself wide, and walked down the street, not much caring that I'd left leaves of a old life, to sit upon a doorway and ponder the white and yellow mottled walls.

- Circa 2006

I'm going traveling for a bit, so I thought I'd do a few extra posts. Funny how dark times produce wistful works. There was certainly no travel at this time, so it seems that this is a dream.

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