18/06/19 Iles Purpuraires


A few days before I came here I saw a violet poppy. The day before Roz had talked about them. Until that moment I never knew they existed.

Last night I watched the sun set over the Iles from a rooftop recommended by a friend of Harley’s. Bells were ringing  from below. Where they calling in the lone wanderers who were roaming  the mini Iles to return safely before sunset? I ordered a mint tea that came in a glass covered with purple flowers.

Violet is the body of a woman becalmed. Her skin a thick layer of green grass and golden sand. If you touch her even slightly she turns the deepest violet. The walls of her prison have crumbled and in the gaps grow wild flowers. There are ledges for the rare falcons called Elanora. This Ile was once attached to the land but now she is separate. A force, protecting the mainland from the ravages of the wind.

She watches from her tower. Boats circle but do not moor. To land you need permission, a permit. Still she gazes at the sky. At the exact moment the sun sinks down into the sea a perfect violet line appears and she dissolves.

I arrived bruised but unlike the fish I didn’t die and I won’t be eaten. I have swallowed the violet Ile whole and surrounded it with a glittering white sea.

To visit you will need to peel back layers. To guide you carry in your violet (non plastic bag) a fig, a clove of garlic, a wooden Berber key, green pigment that changes violet with touch and a sardine. Violet is half of violence without the T.






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