Saturday, 24th November 2012
the day of leaving and arriving
this overlap of reality
Finalities and waking early. Sorting, wrapping, packing, checking.
And: going back in time. To the same day, some years ago. When i was there on the island already for the longer part by then, when thoughts turned to going back home. Here's the diary entry from back then: all that remains (and to think: what would remain without words).
Thursday, 24th November 2006
all that remains
every morning, just after sunrise, i go to the beach. it's not far, and it feels like the most beautiful start to the day, walking down the way that leads to the shore. and the shore, it's different every day, the light, the waves, the wind, the clouds.
so i am sitting on the beach now, watching the waves, watching ships and birds glide by, and watch the planes arrive and leave. in a way, an island is a place of timeless being, and in another way, it's a place of permanent motion, with the waves and the wind.
and it's a perfect place for words: today i readd a poem at the beach, one that just so fitted to these days, to this place - it's printed in German in the book, so i try the translation, below. back home i will look for the original. just like i will look for the answer of another riddle: the rhythm of the turning of the tides. or maybe i will figure that one out in the passing of the next days.
When the long letters
have been written and read and
stored away, when distances
turn into the absolute,
just like the talking does,
then all that remains is
I have heard the black hearts
who beat only once in their life.
- William Pitt Root