Via Venere Della Puglia A stone wall, keeping an olive grove from tumbling out onto the road, leads my bare feet past a trulli. Fiats slide over steamy roads between artichoke fields. I follow them. Tar-tangled seaweed carpets my trail across the the crustaceous shoreline. With each beat of the surf, my calloused soles plod on. Salty water sprays my naked chest. I throw back my head and the too-blue sky of Mediterranea pelts my face. Exhilaration. My pace quickens. I realize I'm running. Tense thighs pound defenseless soles against the sticky pavement. A fish-tainted breeze caresses my body. Heads snap as I pass a beach cafe. Men who smell like the earth drink cappuccino there. My head lowers, my arms pump, my back absorbs the sun. The sweatless dash turns inland, over the fields, through the olive groves. From nowhere, a toppled temple to Venus appears, fades. Three boys lean against a white-wash wall. One whistles at two raven-haired girls. The girls ignore them but laugh to each other between staccato phrases. I glide by. My feet no longer touch the ground. My calves tighten, relax, flex, unflex. The countryside moves like a pagan dancer - calm and relaxed, to a slow, steady pulse And then, suddenly, bucolic, bacchic beyond ... The countryside blurs. A sudden burst of speed? Am I moving or is the countryside moving? The countryside is moving. It is moving so fast that, suddenly, I am standing still. My feet are not kicking up dirt. The countryside smells like it looks like it sounds like it feels like it tastes. The subtleties of the countryside melt and blend and meld until they are a single color a single odor a single noise a single texture a single flavor. A Single Sensation. I reach around and gather it up in my arms. I roll it and fold it until it fits in the palm of my hand. Then I eat/smell/touch/see/hear it. I am nourished after my journey. In this way, my naked soul is led through the pathways of memory.