A pleasure unique to travel, I suppose: to forget what I am, as far as how I am perceived in our small town, usually as we wander streets, anonymously, following our desires while absorbing a richly unfolding array of aesthetic and sensual impressions.

The town reveals itself (or so I assume) in its tiled terraced houses, narrow fishscaled streets, languid inhabitants, mini mercados, and wee snack-bars. There are jacaranda trees everywhere, bordering squares or alone, sometimes purple-blossomed, fringed like the beguilingly feathered bottoms of vintage Las Vegas showgirls.

Fidelity to details, I urge myself. A motto too for life anyways. Fidelity to the events and thoughts that register in my consciousness. What are we without attention, and how so much of the manufactured world intends to thieve from us the richness of attention, the ability to perceive what matters most? 

So when I look up and see the waxing moon, by degrees more visible each successive night, I must point it out to the husband. How I had missed the moon after months of inclement weather, never seeing it, only longing for it, as if it was an errant lover.

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