Tuesday, August 3, 2010

early morning here

Here in my cabanon, dark outside, some sort of something making welcoming noises, I retain that feeling of when you have the whole day in front of you. It is 2am, so This coming day is indeed ahead, and everything seems possible. i have just finished reading a friend's book to be, she a musician, her husband a painter, and the entire memoir/paintingplaying/writing experiment, with its colors and pain and joy, makes me glad to have such friends. I'm longing to get back to my own experiment in joining the art of reading still life paintings to that of reading recipes beloved by the creators of those paintings, and literary passages relating to the elements in the still lives: you know, Cezanne's ginger pots and eggplants, take it from there.
Hope it finds a publisher, and that it doesn't fall flat in my mind before then!
So the coming day lies ahead, with cabanon-type adventures and so many surrounding friends from so many years right here: writers, journalists, painters, vignerons, and the warmth of Provence even in its mistrals and tourists. What remains, remains. And I know we'll go swimming in the lake's green, and walking in our wild field, and liberating our oak trees from the vines climbing up them, and make our way to Carpentras to pick up some fruit and perhaps a pastry from Jouvaud and maybe even a book...

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