Summer is 5000 kilometers away

 

Summer is 5000 kilometers away

I have this little notebook that I carry around trying to indulge, or anticipate some thoughts, or some ideas, like they will see, recognize, or gift me with some motivated sentences to write about a summer that happened 5000 kilometers away.
 
But so far it is only a blank book in which we calculated gas, money, time and hours to travel.  
 
(sometimes I feel like a goddess of memory who carries the weight of summer fantasy while the rest run free and wild, laughing, celebrating... and now I suffer with those words, images which won't come out - memories stuck in amber.) With everything written I risk too much meaning:
 
"the moon is low and nearly full, and the air is clear and cool, and the sea is phosphorescent, and their song is still playing in my head"
 
On the other hand, maybe I want to delight in this utter tackiness, so it metamorphoses on the page autonomously, and transforms into just words:

chalk
dust
brick
crickets
suns
sunset over adige
adriatic
dwarf everlast
junipers
plums. figs. apples.

Everything hard about the world being transformed
into softness, patiently.

And a dewy glass of rosé on the terrace while checking with my grandfathers binoculars where one hikes through shrubs, bushes, small trees, giant grasshoppers, white rocks, blue background, blue shirt, white shirt, black cameras, straw hat.
A singular image compressed of tiny details, pixels of sun reflections, smiles, scents, tears, dust, eye locks, bricks, branches, cities, horizons... 21 days, 9 hours, 30 minutes.
Total size: 1.09 GB.
 
No, I can't see anything, as the binoculars are broken and my grandfather is partially blind.
 
Some things are better not to be seen.
 
I engage in stories, make plans, cook dinners, not knowing the storm ahead. I make truce in a new war. Peace is in the transparent air, green and blue. Silence.
My body no longer listens to itself, adrift in the sea of the immense sweetness. This sea vibrates around the vessel, overwhelmed. It is here. A whole orchestra.
 
It's an illusion, a phantasm, and a sun-induced drug.
 
Who is to say?
 
Still, I'm growing restless.

Photo: Miro Roman