Monday, 15 June 2015

Commas and comas

La Torre de Dalt is in the hills above Girona in Spain. We are less than 20 kilometres from Figueres, Salvador Dali's hometown, and this gathering is as wonderful as his paintings. Thirty friends and relatives from diverse backgrounds are here and last night Teo Krilic played guitar for us. He opened with Na klepeci Naunulama – my favourite traditional Bosnian sevdah song. The words are those of a daughter hearing the clogs of her dead mother on the stairs. We all remember our missing dead and some of us our missing living as well. There are still a few writers here. They move around together and we have named them the 'murmuration of writers'. In the evenings they read their work and last night invited Oha Maslo to join them. He laughed and apologised for turning down the invitation: “As soon a I see the first comma I go into a coma.” I write looking across at the Cap de Creus above Cadaqués where Dali had his summer home. Some of my guests are going to visit his museum in Figueres this week, but they don't need to go there to experience the weirdly wonderful. It's right here. And I think I am going to have to write another chapter for 'Left Field'. Its title?  'Commas and comas'.


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