A mask bought in Venice long ago. It was an apt choice. It meant that I could bring Venice home like an ongoing turbulent metaphor. That city that weaves on water, art galleries to reel the soul, bridges that bespeak the unbearable lightness of being. (Sorry Kundera). That city with its open planes, coffee shops adamant to sing your soul a song, houses matchboxed to each other, whispering of mysteries beyond every door. You trying not to knock on the doors.
So I brought the two masks home. So they keep extremely quiet whilst I try to make sense of passing days. But every now and then as I look up from my computer, books, papers, I catch one of them watching me. Watching what I will do with today, and tomorrow, and wondering whether I still remember Venice.
