in which i decide not to take clothes home
"i'll just be in and out. go on ahead. you'll know when you see it," he said with a smile, before ducking into what looked suspiciously like a lingerie shop. but i knew better; in the tiny store before, a women's swimwear store with carousels of tiny bits and indiscriminately plastered images of air-brushed ladies, he had magically produced before me a pair of male swim shorts, his only apparel he hoped for the weekend while vacationing in malta.
after a brief hesitation on the steps of the store -- how long is "in and out"? should i return or stay in that location? will i get lost? (me scuuusiii...dov'eee.....) -- i walked on.
he didn't lie as i saw it around the next corner. against a backdrop of patina-tinged buildings and small trinket vendors, a painter had inserted his masterpiece, settling it into an easel of multicolored cobblestone, and lashing it in place with conical wires that were haphazardly hidden and so peeked out of the top right of the painting.
was he happy with his work, to be so careless? if he were an impressionist -- because the work suddenly reminded me of monet's white buildings -- then perhaps yes: as i grew accustomed to and perused this sight, it did not grow real but felt more and more like a mirage, a shining palace, a castle in the sky, white and languid in its sealed sphere, and repealing the heat, dust, and cacophony of this casual afternoon in late may.
curiously, though, no one else took notice: a man at the corner was busy texting and had glanced to see why i stood still. another boy, in black tights, had completely turned away to focus on shadows. and everyone was moving, in and out of the scenery, as far forward as to the edges of that miraculous sighting, like little ants, blindly adjusting their course to a rivulet of water.
another small miracle, the rumble of long travel always near:
after a brief hesitation on the steps of the store -- how long is "in and out"? should i return or stay in that location? will i get lost? (me scuuusiii...dov'eee.....) -- i walked on.
he didn't lie as i saw it around the next corner. against a backdrop of patina-tinged buildings and small trinket vendors, a painter had inserted his masterpiece, settling it into an easel of multicolored cobblestone, and lashing it in place with conical wires that were haphazardly hidden and so peeked out of the top right of the painting.
was he happy with his work, to be so careless? if he were an impressionist -- because the work suddenly reminded me of monet's white buildings -- then perhaps yes: as i grew accustomed to and perused this sight, it did not grow real but felt more and more like a mirage, a shining palace, a castle in the sky, white and languid in its sealed sphere, and repealing the heat, dust, and cacophony of this casual afternoon in late may.
curiously, though, no one else took notice: a man at the corner was busy texting and had glanced to see why i stood still. another boy, in black tights, had completely turned away to focus on shadows. and everyone was moving, in and out of the scenery, as far forward as to the edges of that miraculous sighting, like little ants, blindly adjusting their course to a rivulet of water.
another small miracle, the rumble of long travel always near: