Always back to the shore...

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. 

 Hernan Diaz
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.