saturday dusk treasures
I love my island at sunset.
Fire reverberates on each sandgrain; sandstones find pleasure on washed kelp... Feathers and stones always write stories in that earth tongue one does not always understand.
As feet find their roots in wet sand, I become one with Arcania.
There, on my way to daily walk by the shore, I kept in mind the text I read earlier that day, which I received from our curach skipper Macdougall. To my humble nomadic heart, it resonated like a message in a bottle. It speaks of continental inscriptions: geographaphs, chronographs, phonographs and paragraphs. It notably took me back to Gulliver, Friday and Robinson Crusoe.
This bridge of sand allows such trek. From mainland to island - just as Kenneth White runs away from motorways of western civilisations! My sandbrige provides the shoormal - this critical edge as Diaz calls it; rite of passage to my topical paradise, where north Atlantic protects its natural causeway at high tides, like some self-defence mechanism... Others can look from the distance or wander through without knowing...
It's big enough to sustain all kinds of assaults, pulls of the moon and man-made signatures. The water acts as a rubber and deletes traces from one's feet.
Earlier this year, I painted it with pixels. This blog entry was entitled Snapshots from Arcania ...A summer before that, I painted it with words.