this ain't Tolstoy
I loved the way that the sun felt on my face in southern Spain; much like my surroundings, it felt foreign. The sun there even seemed to seep into my skin and brain and be speaking in a foreign tongue. It browned my skin as it whispered to me, wandering alongside me--a companion--as we explored Moor-inspired old towns; over bridges, old and new: "hola amiga, te extrano mucho." I wish I could be in Spain right now, instead of glued to this desk chair in the library. *Sigh.* I am feeling wanderlust again...hmm... I am thinking of Spain because I was reading about/ooking at paintings by Picasso because I was reading e.e. cummings', "Picasso." (My mind sometimes reminds me of the Laura Numeroff series , If you give a moose a muffin , et alia. Picasso is someone I have always admired--we met when I was a Spanish student in high school--because he always told the truth of what he was seeing. Picasso painted beautiful, breathtaking things: dancing, love, music, food...