[This post was written in the winter of 2018 but never published. Uncanny how it speaks of today…]
I had a dream in Florence that I was in the Sahara, in Timbuctu, where I had been many years earlier. I was looking up at the house of Rene Caillie, the 18th century French explorer.
“I’ve been here before,” I told my mother. “Now it is a museum, but before you were allowed in…”
I was looking at the patterns in the stonework, mosaics and tiles, and feeling a deep sadness under the surface beauty. It was like all form was a mask to cover the emptiness.
