Today I want to go to a centuries-old fortified city on a hill. I want to wander the narrow, winding, cobbled streets between crowded and cheerful homes, and then climb up covered wooden stairs, uneven and graffiti-plagued, my eyes barely adjusting from the brilliant sunshine in time to avoid tripping on slopes and gaps.
I want to come out to find the wall, the same wall that has protected this city for hundreds of years, slowly giving in to time and revealing its crumbling brick-and-mortar soul.
I want to sit on a bench, letting the trees absorb the blinding blue heat, and drink a lemon Fanta while wondering how many generations of men have lived in this funny, slanting tower house next to the cathedral, and just how long it has until it finally slips off the edge of the hill, as it has been slowly, ever so achingly slowly, trying to do for the last few centuries.
I want to sit next to my husband on a bench while he sketches the slowly slipping tower and I scribble notes on stories and ideas and inspiration. And then I want to walk with him through the centuries of the peaceful dead, entombed forever in the ground and the green.
And where the tombstones have fallen, or the graves have been replaced, the markers are lined up against verdant mounds like a fence of memories, names worn off by time, all that remains of someone's life a stone sentinel, guarding nothing.
People buried under hills and in the sides of them, all things made equal by time and creeping green things.
I want to wander, and then sit and write strange, sad, beautiful tales of things that never were or are no longer but may be yet again. I want to play with language and create images that are surprising and wonderful.
Or, you know, I'll just go ahead and sit in the corner of this couch and write what I have to. Because Transylvania is a bit far to commute, and I have a deadline.
But I still want a lemon Fanta.