spainland

this side of the city is old, crumbling

full of magic and life

like the earth

the narrow cobblestone streets

snake through climbing white walls

find the path behind the cactus garden

it will bring you to the space overlooking

snow-capped peaks and rabbit holes  

feel the air

as you run along

see the trail, hear the song, smell the fire

there is no bad taste

in the heart

granada

I sit at one café,

dreaming of another.

an americano

café "cortao".

white-washed buildings

lean in towards eachother

whispering what they've heard,

or perhaps to feel the space between.

a gypsy named Marino plays outside my window.

I hear the murmur of energy within,

watch the oranges split,

prepare my lips for their tart juice.

I see snow-frosted peaks,

tiled floors

escaping from the cold.

It's a feeling. We grasp onto certain threads; woven through our hearts are stories of pleasure and pain. The city holds it in her walls, her streets, each stone. Placed one by one. I notice how one man's line inevitably affects the rest. The choice of one pebble throwing the rest into a spiral, carpeting the hillside in unforeseen patterns. The guitar still flutters in my chest.  

a week ago

in the Room of Requirement. projects abound!