Postcard From Barranco Ferrer
I believe I took a good photo last night. (I like taking photos at dusk.)
I was returning from an evening hike, at the very moment the air turned spicy/fragrant: Pine, rosemary, rockrose, and “night blooming jasmine—” also the moment I was aware of being in a state of joy.
Lewis has been chewing on something undetermined on the floor.
I refuse to look. Turned off lights.
I shall have to face it in the morning.
In the light of day, it occurs to me I have to show you the actual colors of those (flower name?) in photo #2.
(It was my mother's favorite color and in the 70s we called it "shocking pink." )
I want a real camera but it has to be what my mother used to call "idiot proof."
She only wanted to press one single button, and I feel the same.
The Project, by the way, not completed yet but I see the whites of its eyes. Today should be final day.
With eyes closed, have placed wet paper towel over that which Lewis chewed on--have come that far.
Update: Have removed, discarded, sterilized, said a prayer for its soul.
Why do I think these things are worth detailing? I don't know. Why do they take so long to complete?
Third F in C-PTSD...
Nice to get postcards from a favored Substack voice. This part of Spain always interested me because of my lifelong love of flamenco. One of your readers, a woman living in rural Eastern Australia, has "Friends with Solitude" in her Substack bio. This grabbed me because I attempt the same even while living in Manhattan, NY. I often walk along the Hudson River. May we all find ways to nurture ourselves in a world of chaos.