- The poetics of space, Gaston Bachelard
Time hasn’t slipped away. That is a false idea. It isn’t like a snake, moving away once you set eyes on it, or rainwater falling on a roof and making its way into the earth once it has hit the ground, forming puddles here and there, reflecting the sky and the clouds, as if remembering where they came from. It has been almost three days since I arrived here and as always in a new place, they feel like at least double the amount of time. Everything is new, everything asks for attention and since I am extra attentive, it seems as if the days are endless and filled with new events every minute of them. Small ones mainly. A giant beetle trying to climb the threshold separating my room from the outside world. The light changing over the mountains. The sound of frogs in the night. The scent of wild fennel. New flowers every time I bend over to collect seeds from the ones I was looking for. Long walks. Short walks. Looking up, looking down. And again and again, sitting on the roof of the building that is embracing the old limestone ovens, with my legs dangling over the edge and taking in the scenery. Tasting the purslane, picking gooseworth for dinner, eating the small purple flowers of the plant I don’t know the name of while exploring the hidden corners of the premises. Touching walls, admiring yellow lichen, observing a hoopoo bird, watching a shrimp move through the river. Finding out where the bees make their honey, seeing trees full of figs and feeling sad because they are not ripe yet but realising that if they would be, there wouldn’t be that many flowers around and the sun would be ruthless. May is a kind month. It is the start of things. A promise I believe in.
Ideas are growing. And some are withering. Some are parked for later. But today, after three days of observing, wandering and wondering, is a day for action. Let's see what happens.
