Oria: An over emotional shepherd's rest

 

Woke up in the throes of whatever, but made it to the truncated shepherd's rest and a group of mortuary brits. Some what struggled to connect out of the mire of yesterday's olibanum compound, and the deep bruising of things old and collected in the heart. The subtle seep of hurting, that still wont quite give. After the meetup, had a delightful walk around Oria, up past bright colours, and some left open studio, of an abstract artist, to the high fortifications of falling masonry, and a wide, low brim of a view. A Map work  circle of valleys. neat patches and greening shadows down below, sewn, and spread, in a vast and impressive circular arc. There was a calmness to this place where soldiers, must have watched for the approach of other territory. A simmering silence, that flowed like eddies around me. I had followed the trail upwards of a group of Spaniards , attaching to their easy happiness so obviously from out of town. A cluster of adolescent boys and girls, those usual tight knit age-mates, the ones that only ever look inwards, never seeing past their edges to whatever lurks alone. These large age groups are the norm here, they think and move as one. Uniformity, set in the sure knowledge of long acquaintance. Well woven, I observed their easy calls and interplays, the easiness of youth, before moving down the hill alone. In the belly of the town I found a small and unusually quiet place, collecting in the stones of a pretty plaza, and a large and salty looming lady of our grace. It reminded me of an Italian piazza, Michael Corleone's wife, on a quiet afternoon-ed day. Something in residence behind closed doors, something put away. That was the kind of old it had. There was a special kind of silence, here, something far more gathered, than the usual set of siestas in small obscure, out of the way places. This old plaza, with it's one eyed dog, and absence of greeting, had something unique and quiet to say. Here for a moment on a warm, step, in the quiet wind, watching the Amazon man trying after several attempts to make a difficult delivery, I sat and tried to  feel my way. Letting the afternoon winter sun, sift past the threatening emergence of lost and covered things, olong paths that discreetly obscure the way. From there it was back through other places:  back rides, and rough roads, that were singular but correct.  Anxious cuttings, and dark sure forests, that somehow emerged in Cullar. Somewhere that I knew. From there it was, on instinct, to Mercadona, dodging old patterns, and the toilet out pourings, of  the usual one way streets. People who got to know me too easy for my own good. Drawing up my bridges, and guardians; I bought kefir, and ribs, and went home to where "Judy" and a fire awaited. Next time my Olibanum compound is getting reduced by 1/3. MB