The circumstances of life, random and unpredictable despite all analysts and futurists, have brought me back to these shores. No matter the circumstances, I am grateful (always) for the randomness - how dull it would be if we truly were to know what tomorrow would bring.
But alas, I must confess it is too hot. It is Saharan hot; as British radio hosts talk of floods and rain, I am moving very slowly to conserve energy, a sloth existence in a stillness so unsettling that its crackle whispers only of wishful rains - we hot step into the purple night hoping for benevolent winds and imminent thunder, roll on, roll on...
September in Malta is a waiting game; we dream of October - long-sleeved shirts and cool evenings in fresh gardens. To while away the time we watch Portugal play football (and make an international mockery of ourselves by singing offensive songs devoid of wit or imagination), we water ski in an empty bay, we eat German chocolate and find much solace in Greek salad, we listen to cicadas and Paolo Conte's Azzurro.
Conte states: The afternoon is too blue and too long for him, I wonder is he right, can an afternoon really be so blue and so long as to arouse restlessness, a desire to be elsewhere, in a place less summery? In truth, Conte is singing of being left behind in the city, emptied out for the summer months, he sings of a woman who has left him behind and gone to the beach, realising only now just how attached he is to her - but the lyrics resonate nevertheless, for I find that September brings with it a yearning, for days less blue and less long, while Conte yearns for "her", I entertain fancies of pastures green and buildings grey.
The last summer month seems almost wasted upon us. We linger in the shade, the boathouses along the shore have been padlocked, and the nightspots are emptying out. September is a month of nostalgia, of remembrance and of return - to a time when this island was not so crowded, to a time when the seas were always clean and free of roaring boats, to a time when it felt like the simple pleasures of Mediterranean life were a secret unto oneself.
It is important to remember again the joys, even though we are dampened and lethargic, for this secret month allows us to once again enjoy solitude and early morning swimming, to appreciate being bare-footed and outdoors, but I can't help it, I'm praying for rain...
I notice butterflies, birds flying high in V formation, lizards, wilting vines, parched earth. I hear about white doves, chameleons, weevils killing palm trees...
Not much seems to be happening, only nature shifting about, all caught in a hot, hot bubble of expectant change: This cannot last much longer, they cry, this is a merciless scorch that will soon expire, the gods will hear our prayers.
When the rains pour down, we will rejoice and then quickly settle down indoors to dream once more of those balmy nights with our feet in the sea, of those languid afternoons, so blue and long, with not a trace of cloud in the sky, of still mornings that seemed to go on forever, when it seemed impossible to imagine the taste of rain, the smell of fresh, dampened earth, the dismal shadow of cloud.
But alas, I must confess it is too hot. It is Saharan hot; as British radio hosts talk of floods and rain, I am moving very slowly to conserve energy, a sloth existence in a stillness so unsettling that its crackle whispers only of wishful rains - we hot step into the purple night hoping for benevolent winds and imminent thunder, roll on, roll on...
September in Malta is a waiting game; we dream of October - long-sleeved shirts and cool evenings in fresh gardens. To while away the time we watch Portugal play football (and make an international mockery of ourselves by singing offensive songs devoid of wit or imagination), we water ski in an empty bay, we eat German chocolate and find much solace in Greek salad, we listen to cicadas and Paolo Conte's Azzurro.
Conte states: The afternoon is too blue and too long for him, I wonder is he right, can an afternoon really be so blue and so long as to arouse restlessness, a desire to be elsewhere, in a place less summery? In truth, Conte is singing of being left behind in the city, emptied out for the summer months, he sings of a woman who has left him behind and gone to the beach, realising only now just how attached he is to her - but the lyrics resonate nevertheless, for I find that September brings with it a yearning, for days less blue and less long, while Conte yearns for "her", I entertain fancies of pastures green and buildings grey.
The last summer month seems almost wasted upon us. We linger in the shade, the boathouses along the shore have been padlocked, and the nightspots are emptying out. September is a month of nostalgia, of remembrance and of return - to a time when this island was not so crowded, to a time when the seas were always clean and free of roaring boats, to a time when it felt like the simple pleasures of Mediterranean life were a secret unto oneself.
It is important to remember again the joys, even though we are dampened and lethargic, for this secret month allows us to once again enjoy solitude and early morning swimming, to appreciate being bare-footed and outdoors, but I can't help it, I'm praying for rain...
I notice butterflies, birds flying high in V formation, lizards, wilting vines, parched earth. I hear about white doves, chameleons, weevils killing palm trees...
Not much seems to be happening, only nature shifting about, all caught in a hot, hot bubble of expectant change: This cannot last much longer, they cry, this is a merciless scorch that will soon expire, the gods will hear our prayers.
When the rains pour down, we will rejoice and then quickly settle down indoors to dream once more of those balmy nights with our feet in the sea, of those languid afternoons, so blue and long, with not a trace of cloud in the sky, of still mornings that seemed to go on forever, when it seemed impossible to imagine the taste of rain, the smell of fresh, dampened earth, the dismal shadow of cloud.