I know. I know, I should be in Mysore, dusted by incense, drunk on jasmine … But I’ve changed my mind; I’m back in Venice. I’ve my very own apartmento here in San Marco, just a stones throw from the Canal Grande. Mornings at the Dante Alighieri, lunch at home or at a cantina somewhere close by, homework, museums, and then out into the streets, primed for experiences and avid to see.
I remember the dark, silent, shining streets. Midnight silent. Imagine cats, rats, silenced by the clattering of my footfalls on the cobbles as I head home at last. I have the city to myself, late at night.
The vast emptiness of the Piazza, its porticos receding into the darkness, the space within expanding outward as I cross further into its void. Its hugeness as huge as my urge to sing: loud, beautiful sound. At my back, the symmetry of San Marco itself, its three mosaic domes glistening under the star-heavy sky. The horses are pulling the whole basilica along behind me.
Memories of the smell and swing of the swells, today’s white-whipped sunshine. Now, the whispering peacock black night washes my face, a wisp of silk arches my neck, warm, aerated hair tingles my back. Like a lover, the water glints, flashes, shoots shattering, frenzied sparks in the wake of a passing Vaporetto. It laps and sucks, surges and recedes, to the ancient rhythm of La Luna.