White on White, 1918, Kazimir Malevich
sometimes I pump really loud hiphop and rap from the computer while planning out the next few stages of my travels and since the office is above the goat stalls I like to think I’m giving the goats a little culture.
Lou Doillon - Devil or Angel
With a picnic, water and heavy sandwiches, I set off to explore. St Martin was a magic island. Secret white sand coves indented the shore. I chose one far from town, walled in by thick bush that the rain had polished and framed by swaying royal palms. Under a china-blue sky, I sat naked in the shallows to watch schools of fish, recognizing only silver baby barracudas. And waded out to swim through glass-clear Nile-green water, where you could see below to the sand and more passing fish, into silky deep sapphire sea. And swam back to munch sandwiches in the shade and swam again. The sun was not a torment but the blessing I had always felt it to be, before sailing in the Pilot. I forgot the war, it was somebody else’s nightmare. I was in that state of grace which can rightly be called happiness, when body and mind rejoice totally together. This occurs, as a divine surprise, in travel; this is why I will never finish travelling.
Travels with Myself and Another, Martha Gellhorn