• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 11
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Postcards from Babel

Brief scribbles, trivial, even trite – what we write on postcards. We don’t tell the truth, try to find some titbit, some amuse-bouche, some anecdote to convey a whiff, a sniff, a taste light on the tongue, some tang of what we’re up to, what we’re seeing, feeling – but there’s not room for much, we can only touch on the texture, flavour, heat of where we’re seated watching the world in snippets, jerky sequences, idly constructing narratives for those who pass our table on the terrace as we sip a bitter-lemon, a spritzer, an Aperol, break pieces off a roll, spear some asparagus, a slice of sausage, calamari rings, under umbrella shade. Colours zing in sunlight – frozen segments of celluloid, video clips, digi-images stopped mid-frame. We do not really wish you were here – this way we can construct the story, spare you the ennui, the relentlessness of being in each other’s company.

Give me some space.

I’m cramped into this rectangle – one side bright scene, the other blank – not big enough to say… everything. Select some highlights, annotate with wit. Maybe elaborate later. Maybe not. It’s a snapshot – tells whatever tale you want to hear. Truth is, others have more fun. Their colours are more vivid, happiness louder - they know where to go. I can get in but everything is tawdry, tasteless, dust. Can’t get it right.

The space is tight. No one wants to hear the dreary details. Spice it up. Hubbub. Brouhaha. Hurly-burly, cacophony. It’s a place con mucha marcha. I’m sick of din, can’t begin to understand the babble. It’s Babel. Let’s boil it down. Weather‘s great. Food fab. There’s so much to see. I love it here. Of course you don’t believe me.