The Ghosts and a Ticking Clock

Fog at Fort Point | Mark Lindsay

Three weeks in Venice is hardly a long time. But, at the start it felt that way. I fooled myself with the illusion was that I'd be there forever—that I was there for good. But, three days later I found myself counting. I was secretly counting the days until the arrival of my sad departure. I shook this diabolical countdown off with a shudder. But, it didn't work. The little clock continued ticking away in my brain and then chimed in again the very next morning.

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Unexpected Hauntings

Venetian Ghosts #24 | Mark Lindsay

They tell me that the past and the future are mere illusions—this is what I am told by the great teachers of wisdom and spirit. I am told that the only thing that we really have is the present moment. The here and now. Yet, the ghosts continue to visit me at the most inopportune times. They are the swirling winds of my past, the floating ghosts of this life that I know.

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Ghosts Again

Venetian Ghosts #21 | Mark Lindsay

A return to Venice is like no other sensation. Like any good theatrical event, it's best to plan one's return with some flair. Venice is a city of the sea, given its birth by the briny lagoon. Therefore one should always, always approach her by boat. Any other way is simply not right.

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Something from the Shoebox

Provencal Potter | Mark Lindsay

My memory mellows with years. Edges lose their sharpness. Perspective changes. Try going back to your old grammar school or high school and see if the halls are the same as you remember. I'll bet they're much smaller than is the expanse of your memory. Memories are like that. They either become bigger than life or they hide themselves in the recesses of our psyche—as if they were bad kids smoking in the school bathrooms.

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A Lonely Monument

Monument with Cross | Mark Lindsay

A headless rag doll greeted us as we entered the boarding house of an Arizona ghost town. The floorboards, what was left of them, were covered in dirt. On closer inspection it wasn't dirt at all but rather the excrement of a million bats. I'd suddenly had enough of ghosts for one day. I shivered as a jolt went up my spine. I needed some fresh air. I could have sworn that the headless doll snickered at me on my way out. But can a doll snicker without its head? It must have been my imagination.

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