To tell intimate stories is to whisper in the ear, to reach for the hand, to enter the palace of memory and with wonder and longing recall feelings placed in its halls. To tell intimate stories is to wander spaced-out and at-home through the intricate architecture of the heart, made of walls and openings just as a house is. To tell intimate stories is to sink deeply into other lives and times, and to be unforgettably present.
(from ‘Other Lives and Times’ ~ an immersive performance work in progress, by Deidre Matthee & Ines de Carvalho)
Today it is nine years since I moved from South Africa to Portugal.
9 ~ an imperfect circle, unspooling.
The closest way home is remembering what it smells like.
To be homeless is more than just being without shelter. It is to be without a crucial point of reference from which oneself and the world is comprehended. ~ Tony Fry
~ because it’s the time of the year (on this side of the world) when the city slows down and the streets go hazy and summer calls everyone elsewhere…
~ because it’s the time of the year (on the other side of the world) when winter starts speaking of loneliness and longing and you dream of being someone somewhere else…
* This postcard is part of my ‘imaginary places’ series: the places one wants to go that exist only in the region of the heart’s imaginings – boa viagem/ voorspoedige reis! ~ deidre m.