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Tonight is a rainy, sulky tawny port night. I love port bottle corks. A long, long time ago I found myself in Fatima, Portugal for three weeks. I saw no apparitions, but I did see a bottle of port, shared with an old lost friend every night on the flat roof-top terrace of the Dominican boarding house we were staying in. I could hear the choirs singing in the basilica, watch pilgrims crawling on their knees down a well-worn path. We took a bus to Obidos a Medieval walled city closed anything but foot-traffic. Over another bottle of port my friend and I stood outside the crumbling walls, looked out over hills and vineyards. Possessed by some demon, my friend and I decided to get married. He gave me a tarnished, silver ring. We had a perfect wedding in an perfect old cathedral in the US (as old as it gets around here). My dress was made of hand-woven, Irish lace. The communion wine was tawny port. The demon moved on to another target soon after. I go on record to state that I had the shortest marriage ever - inspired by iconographic bewitchment and port wine.
So I open the bottle tonight, the perfect port cork, and I drink to you, old friend - wherever you are (when we last spoke, you told me that you had twins with a new wife, so you need all the blessings you can get - communion is out of the question unless you or I fork over the money for the annulment). Here's to Croatia, alt-country, chess, the damned piano that someone needs to move out of my office, and the horse that I bought instead of a boat. I named the gelding Home-wrecker and he went on to a great life in the low-hunters.
On a decidedly less maudlin note: I am working through two Schwarz snippet revisions and promise to earnestly commit myself to The Forgotten Tree this week. I forgot how to write for a month.
Tonight is a rainy, sulky tawny port night. I love port bottle corks. A long, long time ago I found myself in Fatima, Portugal for three weeks. I saw no apparitions, but I did see a bottle of port, shared with an old lost friend every night on the flat roof-top terrace of the Dominican boarding house we were staying in. I could hear the choirs singing in the basilica, watch pilgrims crawling on their knees down a well-worn path. We took a bus to Obidos a Medieval walled city closed anything but foot-traffic. Over another bottle of port my friend and I stood outside the crumbling walls, looked out over hills and vineyards. Possessed by some demon, my friend and I decided to get married. He gave me a tarnished, silver ring. We had a perfect wedding in an perfect old cathedral in the US (as old as it gets around here). My dress was made of hand-woven, Irish lace. The communion wine was tawny port. The demon moved on to another target soon after. I go on record to state that I had the shortest marriage ever - inspired by iconographic bewitchment and port wine.
So I open the bottle tonight, the perfect port cork, and I drink to you, old friend - wherever you are (when we last spoke, you told me that you had twins with a new wife, so you need all the blessings you can get - communion is out of the question unless you or I fork over the money for the annulment). Here's to Croatia, alt-country, chess, the damned piano that someone needs to move out of my office, and the horse that I bought instead of a boat. I named the gelding Home-wrecker and he went on to a great life in the low-hunters.
On a decidedly less maudlin note: I am working through two Schwarz snippet revisions and promise to earnestly commit myself to The Forgotten Tree this week. I forgot how to write for a month.