A visitor in this strange city. Lost in cultural translation. And geographical shifts.
Glistening water. The pebbles hissing. Nothing left of the summer restaurants.

The billows come and go. The memories come and go. Close your eyes and you depart with a broader stroke. Swimming across images, sounds, visual sculptures of impressions and emotions. Pebbles set to sound and motion by the waves of your mental recollections.

Turning around, following another map of the intricate geometry of memory and imagination. Hotel Suisse. James Joyce. You pick your room. Perhaps, from up there, you will follow the lead.

Turning back still. A little boat coming across the bay. Sailing across, undeterred by rising waves. Fishing ahead. Ahead of fishing maybe too. An invitation to interrogate your own sense of freedom and independence. To revisit your undaunted choices. Setting the course squarely on the rising sun.
Cinematic jumpcut to western imagery. You smile. Comforted by the ease and the fluidity of the suggestion. The sailor looks back, seems to call out to you. At least, you would like to think so. But the net (your own net) has to be cast from the shore.

Virginia W interrupts James J :
“To get in touch with the reader, the writer must set in front of the reader something which he recognizes, which stimulates his imagination and makes him willing to cooperate in the more difficult business of intimacy”.

The sailor arrests the swimmer.

Marie Lienard-Yeterian