||[Jun. 19th, 2005|10:40 am]
This is the first time I've walked with a stick since I was 17. the stick is bamboo, very light, with a plastic handle that looks like horn.
I am up on the evening hill among broken stones and black umbrella pines. The girl band down in the Placa d'Espanya is so loudly amplified that even we wanderers in rarified air can sing along .
What is that noise the sea makes- is it a sigh, a groan, a whisper? It is all these and more. It is the voice of our lovers past and to come. As a noble Roman once remarked, "all human knowledge comes from the sea."
Ma and pa seagull go winging past, level with me but still high up. Do birds ever die in mid-flight? Has anyone seen it happen? The aloes sprawl on the blue-grey cliffs like angels. If I were to drop off the edge I would look like that.
Behind my eyes is a circle. In one half are the girls in the band, in the other the waves of the sea. They address one another like centaurs and lapiths. There is no clear line between them, just a zone of pulse and shiver.