emboldening

so why does it have to be this time stolen, you would say borrowed? stolen I am thinking -- having said to Boyce last night: yes, the one thing you could give me would be time -- why can't I write ANYTHING on this so rarely visited, by me or anyone else, blog, in the daytime, you know, daytime, like people? -- ok I am thinking let's just say it, now at whatever time it is, what we wanted, what I wanted to say
That I read the Threepennyreview at this hour, because I know and respect and go to the same everythings, like concerts as Wendy Lesser with he superintelligent face and red hair pulled back and remember saying to her, hi, I am mary ann caws, and I actually teach at the place you are spending a year at, in the biography writing venue , I think, or whatever, didn't matter, remember ah so clearly seeing her at that St. Matthew unforgettable passion  we only got into through Tipi, that amazing tenor I wept over but or and friend of our friend Meriam Korichi, she of the all night philosophy night, and a friend  admired and loved and with whom -- when we converge, as we do in the very south of France, in the Vaucluse,  we do,  we translated a poem of Pascal -- what, a POEM of Pascal, yup, a POEM of Pascal, oh, amazing translations go on in the south of France, another time, will speak of them, but this is now just that this particular issue of the Threepenny Review ( yes, of course I subscribe, just like the New York Public Library Live,  always, but now so I can come to hear my own BELOVED Maggie as in Maggie Nelson, and my own BELOVED Wayne, as in Wayne Koestenbaum as in Wayne Koestenbaum, YES WE SHOULD ALL GO TO THEIR PRESENTATION at the NYPL, and do I just remember welcoming him to our BELOVED graduate school of our BELOVED CUNY, and am I making this up, under the totally beneficent joy of middle of the night  time  in which  NO ONE CAN INTERRUPT me to ask for a recommendation or an anything? no, so  there are, in this issue of the Threepenny Review,  all these  wonderful photos by Grete Sten d Ellen Aeurbach, known as Ringl +  Pit , whose show we had visited, Deborah Solomon and I, a while back...
so this is to say that, and when I get back in the daytime, when people write, you know, the daytime, I will indeed go on with my SIMPLYWOOLF for which I am contracted, sounds like a  murder, but you get the point, whoever you are or probably is, and the oh yes I am going to do a Jean Cocteau et le cinema, and after speaking on the Isle of Skye on Jon Schueler, whose clouds in whose skyscapes off the Sound of Sleat I really do love, I get to spend a WEEKin Paris with my alltime most beloved French sister, Marie-Claire Dumas, and that will be in June, the beginning of, and that is like Real Time, can't say, and don't have to try to say, Why... so here is my closing thought, will put it in caps in case anyone needs, no, wants to know:  why can't we say what we mean in ordinary daylight time?
I never figured that one out, and probably won't.  But no matter,  I have THIS TIME NOW

Motherwell Delights

So I am so delighted that I get to go to P'town this next weekend and talk about Robert Motherwell (whom I loved and loved talking with and love the works of) and various writers, and it is every time I think how fortunate I am, we are, that Rene Char gave us the Vaucluse and Motherwell gave us Provincetown as well as Greenwich and since I am still still still (yes, I haven't forgotten Pascal) thinking about something called "gathering places" or the equivalent, like Worpswede and Provincetown and the Florence Griswold house and Prague's literary cafe, it is especially heartwarming!

neighbors

Here in the Vaucluse (don't you love the idea of living in a Closed Valley?)  we are more than fortunate. Up the hill we live on, we have Provencal neighbors to our left,  who have lived in a house far larger than our cab anon for ages and ages, and on our right, a Parisian family with five grown and interesting children, and up the hill a bit, our closest friends here, an English couple who made superb wine, and still live in a ochre-colored farmhouse with a lovely stucco bunch of fruit above the door.
I admit it feels a bit like Manon des Sources when I walk through the length of our unplowed field (I like unplanned nature) to our spring: no water running at all, not a drop. I am told the quarry has plunged deep into the ground and sucked up all the water -- luckily, we have water from the town 2 kilometers away, and it is delightful to drink. I remember going down on my motorbike to fill great plastic jugs with water from the always running spring in the village, strapping the jugs back on my bike and hoping against hope (whatever that might mean)  that the dogs all the way up the hill would leave me alone. Sometimes they did.