Hard to know what of this mood is the sensuality of Isabel Allende's Eva Luna--which has finally engulfed me--or the broad bright magic of the river. The Amazon. Here among the weed water—land doused in mile wide water: our world's largest river. Whether the book or the jungle or the river wind in my face, I'm a bit in love today.
Curiosity walks me to the back of the boat where the Approachable Fat Man in white reclines on a cooler. "Do you live on the river?" I ask. "A donde va Usted?"
He does. He's headed home.
"En que trabajas?" he responds.
"I'm an artist."
He extends me his hand as if it were my own, applauding my brave declaration. And somewhere in this mélange of literary, waterway, South American love story, I find myself. I shake his hand and am OK being what I am. This artistic vein of mine, is mine, and far too grown now to weed it out. He is a painter. He hands me his card, and his boisterous thick cheeks smile.
Wind in my face. Jungle and stilted houses at the periphery. River, river, river. Like it's only me and her, and the man driving the boat, who could be God, or my destiny, who does not mind when I sit out front on the edge. "Not too close" though he says, "because if I'm responsible for you falling in, they'll..."
No comments:
Post a Comment