Some cities have their writers. Lisbon, for instance, will forever be Fernando Pessoa’s ~ steeped in the saudade of his words, frozen by his poetry, restless as the disquiet between his journal pages. Paris is haunted by the ghost of Hemingway, tied to his heart and bleeding sweet, bitter wine.
Somewhere in Montmarte’s winding alleys lurks the shadow of Henry Miller, in love with his grey city, captured by the Sacre Coeur, lusting after the broken and the beautiful. Some cities have their filmmakers. In Fellini’s hands, Rome is caressed like a rare and rough-cut jewel, in Wyler’s it bears silent black-and-white witness to a princess and a pauper falling in love.
Editor's Note.
How do we remember? Not with calendars or clocks. Certainly not with the eponymous temporal lobe.
We remember by looking at old photographs, their wear and tear telling time. We remember in a grandfather's waist belt that we no longer know how to wear or by the taste of fake sugar cigarettes that we couldn't smoke. We remember by tasting a spice used in biryani or by feeling the wee corners of our ears turn icy cold.
Read MoreWe remember by looking at old photographs, their wear and tear telling time. We remember in a grandfather's waist belt that we no longer know how to wear or by the taste of fake sugar cigarettes that we couldn't smoke. We remember by tasting a spice used in biryani or by feeling the wee corners of our ears turn icy cold.
Illusion: Seeing Beyond Seeing
Meaning: In Search of Significance.
Melody: A Different Tune
Rhythm: Ordering Time