I landed on Ibiza in the dark.
The whole island smelled like firewood!
Chimney smoke! Damp earth! Trees! Sky! Balmy air! Home! The moon!
The sky ablaze with stars just being born!
I slip a mini-flashlight out of my bag and take notes in the back seat with bright little Alba while Paloma drives us along the dark, smooth, paved roads I don’t remember. My heart and eyes overflow with the old familiar faces, all the faces come to me, stay with me, smile at me. New faces too! People in Ibiza.
What an honor, what a privilege to be invited to read my book.
The perfect place
a magical place
Now back in Barcelona, I have a few things more to say. Henry Miller once wrote, “Writing is a luxury.” For me, “Luxury is writing.” It’s luxurious! I don’t need much! It’s free! “All you need is a bare light bulb!” A friend in Ibiza told me once. In those days I was living without electricity. Writing was a luxury because there was nothing to need. To this day all I need is a pen or a pencil or an eyeliner stub. “I’m a writer with a place to sleep.” Charles Bukowski took the words right out of my mouth.