Saturday 4 May 2013

o : A Lighthouse, Andalucia

A lighthouse near Conil de la Frontera

Dear o,

Four fingers of hazy light stab out onto the black ocean, swing from right to left, disappear into the tumbling countryside, and return again to guide the ships around the point.  There are only a few out there, tinkling lights to compete with the stars.  We are parked behind the lighthouse, snug against its wall and out of sight from the passing traffic.  The night sky is more than clear: it is cut open, leaking itself onto the earth.  The pointing beams of the simple and silent stone tower are like a spinning shield.  It makes me feel like the heavens will fall on our heads if we venture past all the vigilant fires of humankind.  I know it’s ridiculous.  We don’t have the shoulders of Atlas, nor the fingers.  It’s just a feeling.