30 March 2020. Out of Africa.
Isak Dinesen—but it’s also B, of course, and Cinde as well. I see them all here. Or maybe that each of them appear as I make the drawing--each line its own kind of remembering. We know the shapes from what we’ve touched—or from what’s touched us. It works both ways. So that the first caress (too extreme a word, but it has face a root. Cara. We wonder at the sound…) To touch someone’s cheek, very lightly, hand in a palm, turned so that it’s with just the back of the fingers. Who would try to describe this, when?
Alongside is Lulu—out at the edge of the grass. On a farm in central Africa, below the Ngong Hills. Magical name. A coffee farm, high up on a plateau. She describes this beautifully, locates us, as she must have felt, looking out into the distance, the African air…
Lulu, a forest antelope (bushbuck in the book.) A small deer-like creature, so delicate and graceful that she’s accorded the rights of a princess. But somewhere all girls have this. A total grace…
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Africa. The Rastafari love the word—gives meaning to all…
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We’re reading the book together. That is, C reads it to me, each evening now. Beautifully. It’s maybe her very favorite, from years ago. I know she feels close to Isak Dinesen—it’s a pleasure to see her this way, makes me wonder (marvel) at the connection…
Rebecca at the well…
