1. I am getting back in the momentum of writing. Because of C, and because before the holidays, in a writers' workshop, the instructor said, 'Don't stop writing, even nonsense.' 2. For some reason, I saw an image of the waitress at the Ischia restaurant in my head that day. Her inability to understand our English and having to second-guess our requests. And her lips pressed together to form a smile. I thought of all the diners in the restaurant, eating their individual plates cooked in seawater, pretending that all was fine and talking in hushed tones. It was the sea-sick pill we took before that made us drowsy and lazy. We missed the chance to dine earlier at the pier, with the good-looking waiter who was again inept at English. I remember wanting to learn Italian, to sweep them off their feet. These boys who were leading simple lives at the pier, not needing to go anywhere because the salt in the air was nourishing enough. The boy who sold the delicious pizza dough. The younger ones who called us 'arigato' and then 'chings' when Dann appeared. I am trying to remember, but all I can recall are the waves hitting on the shores again and again, the seagulls circling, and the distant chatter in Italian. 3. If I could sculpt this image in words, why let an image take away that privilege? I am afraid of taking out a camera at these beautiful moments. I know you'd be conscious and that will destroy this. I will look at you and smile because we know. The projector runs in my mind, they can be replayed, overlapping scenes, light on water, light in water, light on your face, casting a shadow, blue, red, orange, bright, an originating source, clear, lucid, clean. The colours sometimes undecided or subconsciously corrected. Blur, fuzzy, sharp, true. 4. You were dancing in the living room. 70s electronic. Awkward long limbs, mechanical gestures. Avoiding my gaze, but dancing for me. It was 10 seconds maybe? But that spontaneity between us stretched forever.
