Everyone is writing a pandemic journal, it seems. We all want to capture this lost time that will soon disappear (we hope) when the vaccine makes its way into our arms, when we forget face masks, and how to socially distance, and the acronyms PPE, PCR and RNA.
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.