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.
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.
