Summer afternoon by the Siene.
Once you've seen Cezanne apples you can't look at apples the same way again. Really? She tells me she doesn't have a plan. There is worry on her face and she jokingly corrects herself.
When you walk the streets of an old world city do you feel the ghosts of history oppressing the space within? Why do we want to capture ourselves in the picture of Notre Dame?
A child plays the Play Me I'm Yours piano in Hopital Hotel Dieu as we seek solace from the unknowable. Bandages and silent corridors of people murmuring in black provide relief.
But when the sky opens on the Pont au Change bridge the Seine flows through the radiance of the panorama of the city with it's golden domes and white stone walls and the talk on the spirit of place, how objects or closed spaces contain the past, dissolves. How deep is the Siene?
Pass the backside where you dare not walk at night trying to identify the year of the blue doored building, its splendid sliver of light precious beyond beliefs.
We be at the place we now call home though we have but shared the attic for three brief nights. Enough time to clean the floor and grow accustomed to the carpeted then bare wooden stairs, all four flights.
Baguette & rice-cake before the deep sleep. Imagine a crumbling cobblestone way, a starry pavement & an invisible handrail. Without a path we go everywhere. The forests are ancient. Older than all of us. Our acts should cross out the world like an empty barge gliding on the grey waters. Push the chair under the open window which looks out on the street to watch the Siene float away. Our survival we owe, just barely, to perpetual birth. Close the window.
Tell me your Sunday.