Back from Portugal, a journey across five days, two countries, many encounters old and new.
In Lisbon, up hills and down, along the river, then into the deepening night where I am pressed with questions about form. Which might better be called expressions of attachment to form in the guise of rejection of a particular form: Why this? someone asks, confusing rejection with freedom.
In Mira, night is the roaring sea, day a roaring silence of sitting. We call it a retreat, a weekend. It is neither. The lights go out in mid-sentence. Too bad they are restored in no time.
Sunday, again the glow of Lisbon. A restaurant, each face at the table a reflection of the whole. More questions. No theory, no technique! Plates are filled and emptied, ginger juice is fiery.
Up before 6 on Monday after restless sleep overlooking a splendid jardin andalous. Green tea with generous hosts, then airport-bound. Paris is a thought away.
Every moment is Giacomettric, a magnificent failure of starting again in the face of unending now, wind-whipped, at home.