I no longer want to hunch over my dreams, hands domed over them as if to keep the flame from going out. I want to spit them in an ark as if a dolphin fountain grinning. Or toss them to the admiring crowds as scatters of confetti.
So I went back to Venice.
I could not afford it. I couldn't afford not to.
It is high season, during the Biennale. I was aware that I was pushing the circumstances. Yes, the crowds tripped over my feet unapologetically. The heat burned. My clothes hung heavily like weights. And some of the art was puzzlingly, mockingly bad.
And yet. This dream cannot be tarnished just with a bit of brash and dust. So I walked and walked. At times nearly as if backwards slowly spooling out a thread so that I could eventually find my way back to who I am when not there.
Because it is all that I do not know about Venice, and most likely never will, which calls me to celebrate without needing to understand.
It was a very short visit but such a wonderful one, bringing joy to every corner of me.
I have only begun to shift through the photos taken. I don't think that they are anything exceptional but I will share some nonetheless. This time I just wanted to remain open to take it all in without needing to go to that inside place that captures, something which seemed too similar to protecting my dreams rather than setting them free...
I have missed you all.
How is everyone? Please, do tell.
With Love from Provence,