Carlo Gesualdo, Prince of Venosa, was a sixteenth century composer and musician. The town of Gesualdo in Campania was also the place where he lived. Spring was in the air. The capes of the two ladies strolling in the garden were fluttering in the warm breeze. It was a glorious day, but Livia was in a dark mood.
On the porch in the shade visiting
sitting on a wicker chair
a cyclist passes
black spandex shorts
Today, as the skin of the cooked beetroot slipped off easily under the gentle pressure of my fingers, I am taken back to the moment my hands first performed that satisfying act.
I’ve been toying with the idea of writing my memoirs for a while now. But I’ve always written fiction, and memoirs present challenges to the what-if mindset of fiction writers. Memoirs are factual, with elements of fancy used very carefully.
A ragged bird is swallowed by dark trees and stirring water, grey as packs of rats, runs widdershins, below the heavy cloud.
Once upon a time, a benevolent prime minister looked upon the land and decreed that we would no longer be diminished by books written in the UK and America only, that Canadian writers would stand tall and be recognized for their talents. He opened a war chest to fund fledgling publishers and to assist writers who couldn’t make a living solely by their trade.