From an email . . .
September 12, 2011 § Leave a comment
Oh, my head is swirling and slightly pained by an evening spent with Spanish champagne & (presumably non-Spanish) rhubarb. Would that I could have some Spanish sunshine with it. Or, barring that, a rainy beach. Or, barring that still, a flamenco dancer–she, oblivious or not, I never know, to my foamy rising tides & her seductive currents. Or, barring further still, some paella. That would be nice, too, yes.
Oh, and yes, swirling, too, with some gifted bourbon. Old Rip Van Winkle is a lover & friend to which no so-called fairer sex can compare, though I now notice my blurred beloved coming into focus outside the rain-scarred window, her dancing stalled just long enough to say scornfully, “Bring him the paella instead.”
You think in color? Interesting. I rather wish I did, actually. I’m color blind conceptually, I think. If I see the color of thought it all seems orange, but that seems more a malfunction of vision than its object of sight. To see words and read colors would be a nice respite from many of the other associations I make. What color is this email?
I’m so very sorry to see that you’re still feeling ill. My friends should never be ill. Illness on all those I don’t know, I say! On all those I’ll never know, maybe. On all those I’d never want to know, especially. On those who would never so much as look on the likes of us, certainly. They are already ill, so what’s another sickness?
Not a lot to say of my travels thus far. Every walk or ride thus far has been ended prematurely with an eruption of rain, bursting from the ground it seemed, or by an expected wind whose aim was clearly to send me careering into the canal whose caretaking duck & swans, even after years of acquaintance, eye me with suspicion. Two middle-aged ladies said something to me when I was sitting alone at a cafe the other day that I at the time interpreted as flirtation. I later realized they were telling me it was far too windy to be sitting outside.