In Rome here where I’m now, a city with a huge past, carved and set in stone by uncountable columns, history has been defined so many times. An act of blurring in and of itself, like the tarp covering the car, never revealing its entirety, only showing every single viewer what they want to see, relying on imagination and memory of that what is obscured. And I’m sure that images in our collective consciousness cloud our own memories in the process as well, often passing for one of them to the point we believe them to be our own.
I must confess that I’ve never driven a convertible. I can only imagine the feeling being comparable to riding a motorcycle on winding roads, sun setting wind blowing, no destination. After three accidents it was time to move on. I guess I used up my luck there.
Walking down the steps of my friend’s room here in via Casalini I look outside and see a baby doll and tricycle left behind on the neighbour’s rooftop. A mix of thoughts, memories and associations come to me, and now I long for my innocence and earliest childhood, playing around our house in Ryadh.
I’m on a tram heading to Termini and a little girl points to an imaginary place out the window. Again, constant movement, constant remembering, forgetting, appropriating, redefining, moving towards, and moving away from.