With my fingerly hands with ten fingers, I, the wealdwife, type.
Monday, 5 December 2011
Reverb11, Day 1: The River's Source
Flying into Florence, I look down and see the Arno, greenish and slow-moving. I lose sight of it as we touch down, but I like to think it's come through the the hills and valleys we flew over a few minutes ago, when I nudged you and pointed out a forest, and you said, 'Mmm, truffles', then went back to your book. On the bottles of water we bought at the airport I read, 'The Acqua Panna spring is located within the 1300 hectare park surrounding Villa Panna, a fully protected nature reserve since 1564', and, elsewhere on the label, 'Refund at Collection Depots when sold in South Australia'.
Turn these pages with care: the page you have passed buries its readers. We stand in its doorways, lie in its beds, our spines pressed, stems browning. Turn carefully: roll onto your mate. The pages shut you together. The years are passing; your bends end in seizures, in creases and groans. Watch your hips. Turn with care: see other homes, other inhabitants stroking the paper as you stroke your sheets, the weft of a carpet, the relief of a carving - three men drinking beer in an inn while the forest looks on, clothing the tables in the shadows of trees.