I look out into a sea of blue stretching out into eternity- a melody of shades carrying on endlessly. The sky and sea exist as one. The infinite aura surrounds me. In places, it ripples and its colour darkens. In others, people are placed within it- their tireless breaststrokes and shifting movements dot the pallet with flecks of pink and gold. Others are spots of brown, bobbing within the infinite. At its borders, a creamy strip of velvet froth oozes into the silky sand. In the corners left of the view, before the stretch of gradient teal, people exist in daily life. They run. They walk. They meet to eat. They feed the birds. The day goes on.
The canvas, ever-changing and often unperceived, carries on.
The smell of lemon - the sweet kind that fills rich custard- lingers in the air with delicate freshness. Mixed with the smell of saturated coffee ground spilled into the cup - the scent is as bold as flavour to the palet. Appetite awakens. The flakes of a lemon curd pastry and espresso emerge as a vivid dream.
The pong of paddle ball becomes as rhythmic and routine as the swell of waves meeting the shore. The sound belongs to this place. As do the men who emerge to foster it. Their round figures and red shorts seem as natural as the gulls wadding in the sandy shole. So natural they take no notice from onlooker until the ball falls out of play, disrupting a certainty- that the ball will leave and again return, too and fro, like the night that follows the sun soaked day.
The sound of passing cars emerges from the chorus only as the melody is interrupted. It finds its way to weave itself thus through. It is pushed away, again absorbed, and then unnoticeable. The lull of crashing waves, though the most distant, becomes the lead. Even the faintest ripple takes a note, southing the ear even from where I sit - my balcony seat to the morning orchestra- six floors up in the apartment across the path from the shore.
A soft hum fills the lyrical rhythm as a fishing boat passes through centre stage. The sound, though of the boat, pictured as the voice of a tenor- a yellow-shirted man, lit by the morning sun who is keeping watch at the bow. The guardian of the horizon.
The chorus is composed on the telephone wires below. Their wings quick like rapidly repeated snaps of a shutter- the small chirps cutting through the melody of all other sounds. Shifting their sound not with pitch but with motion - they move to grassy patches beneath where seed has been left by the others listening front row.
From here I write the notes. I mark each crescendo and half rest, to remember this song again.
The sour scent of braised lamb melds with a dusty heat in the smooth worn allies of the shook. Each stall is its own window into a sultry den of stories. A home of silver trinkets is organized in such large heaps one believes he is digs for treasure, stumbling upon his own cherished lamp holding new fortune.
The sun sulks over the pathways until it peers in over the metal sheets shielding its view. Where it emerges, it shines with brilliance - casting dubious rays on the dust polluted air. It draws the eye, up. Beyond the streets busy with patrons selecting new earthenware; Above the vibrant textiles that float in a soft breeze; Through the dull glimmer of Turkish lamps lit throughout the stalls, and into the warmth of an April desert sun.
Voices measure distance. A man's deep heartened laughter marks the turn in the path. Beyond him, a vendor sings a Hebrew melody, each throaty syllable carried across the stone walls, vibrating through the corrugated roof and deep into the shooks maze of walls. A nearer voice calls faintly with invitation, pulled in the moment eyes linger. A ragged silk cloth is pulled close, wiping the brow of the vendor behind a heap of yellowed egg break. His eyes follow the gaze of passersby. Even as the sea thickens his gaze never breaks, endlessly watching. A visual pendulum amongst the flow of the shook. Days. Months. Centuries. The rhythm remains.