In the morning I went out to shop for a couple of things. It was cloudy, or perhaps dusty, but breezy, with intervals of gentle sunshine. Philip Glass’s Protest from Satyagraha on the iPod. The new neighbourhood looked even more likeable than usual: urban, with trees in the pavement, calm, clean. For the first or, maybe, the second time in the Outpost, I felt like I were home. That I belonged. It was a feeling to treasure. The bitter Loxias mental comment came shortly afterwards “If one must be exiled from the cities, this can be a good place to be exiled in”. It was somehow facetious and contrived, however: I was feeling light.
In the late afternoon, after a nap, we went to Dancer’s place for coffee. We went through his bedroom to the little rooftop terrace, which gave a very interesting view of the old part of the city he lives in: three palm trees, house rooftops complete with water tanks, solar heaters and satellite dishes, neighbours’ walled backyards — a clearly middle eastern vista but not without charm: it looked sweet, in the ‘doux’ sense of the word.
"... neither reveals nor conceals" 