Storied Walls

By Sarah Robinson

August 4, 2014

Storied Walls

The wall outside my window is a bending patchwork -- out of plane, out of level, sloping in opposing directions; each one of its red bricks is imperfect like pottery and bread -- shaped by hand and baked in fire. It is a fragment of the thick red halo that once wrapped this whole city, was once a part of its strategic embrace. Though these ancient walls have been torn by gravity and time, the city still breathes inside them. When you slow your pace ever so slightly, you can hear a low rumbling; like leaning into a seashell and listening to the resonance of its inner folds. The drum of footsteps on river rounded stones, the sight of confections arranged like art in shop windows, the smell of pizzas baking inside brick ovens, the pharmacist dispensing medicine from the felt lined drawers of mahogany cabinets, plaster peeling, hinges creaking, smoke ringing, copper greening, domes, cranes, steeples, towers perforating the skyline, church bells sounding their acoustic clocks, the accordion player pumping his pleats as if fanning flames, linen covered tables, chairs, umbrellas rayed outside cafes, children laughing, cats crying, mamas reprimanding, swallows, swifts, starlings darkening the sky, bike tires and trolleys burnishing the streets, stilettos piercing them, shutters hiding light, the river reflecting it, wooden gates opening to secret courtyards -- wave upon wave of motion and rest -- the city trembles -- lulling and rhythmic. My senses flying out, antennae awaken on every inch of skin, infinite expansion, walls holding me in.


Photo "Old crumbling brick wall" provided by Carol, via Flickr creative commons license.

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