The shadow edges are crisp and razor sharp from the sunlight pouring down on the island. There is a warm breeze, intermittent, which buffets the shrubs at the summit. I reach down and run my hand through the warm, soft earth. It is red clay, dry and crumbly. I pick up a smooth stone and place it in my pocket. Rising, I look around, approach the low wall, and peer out over the vastness of the Mediterranean… And the small rise of land we stand on speaks its insignificance, as it would just disappear into the blue from a higher perspective. Capri. Sorrento. My paradise.<\/p>\n
And the emotion… who understands the emotion? I was alone then, even under the watchful eyes of my parents. So alone to witness such a wealth of beauty. So alone to turn a corner around the boulangerie in Vence, catch a fleeting scent of moments past, and have the emotion cascade down upon me again. I can still smell the terracotta tiles baking in the sun on the roofs of the houses, and hear the cacophony of the traffic, making our way to the tabac. I can even recall the feelings of my situation in those moments, when all was well or some obscure worry hung over me.<\/p>\n
I need to tell. I am a pulsar of memories, witness to such beauty compressed into five years in the galaxy of my mind. I was in mid-yawn yesterday evening, at the point where your consciousness starts to fade ever so slightly from the yawn before returning, and the first notes of a song played, a song I had played hundreds of times before, but this time, in the passing of that moment, I was in a hotel in Vence again, in mid-January, my face turned towards the wall in my bed, the sounds of the street below barely encroaching on the music coming from my headphones, that same song.<\/p>\n
I can’t write about these things. I need pictures; something… just to be there with someone. I don’t know. Expression.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The shadow edges are crisp and razor sharp from the sunlight pouring down on the island. There is a warm breeze, intermittent, which buffets the shrubs at the summit. I reach down and run my hand through the warm, soft earth. It is red clay, dry and crumbly. I pick up a smooth stone and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[1],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.boldulysses.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/71"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.boldulysses.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.boldulysses.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.boldulysses.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.boldulysses.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=71"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.boldulysses.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/71\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.boldulysses.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=71"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.boldulysses.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=71"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.boldulysses.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=71"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}