SAINTES, FRANCE: Mint tea, broken toes and a night of rotoscoping- gentle prose

Literally, too beautiful, are the moments that define my "now".

All strokes come to mind so that I am striken with indecision, as an artist. There is no "one" color that resides in that tree. There is no "one" note that these here birds sing. There is no "one" way to capture the fact that "no one" is around me.

one fifteen hour train ride and a glimpse-of-bordeaux later...i lay my head to rest in Saintes (l'ouest de France). the fresh market this morning, a long walk in the afternoon and a new social scene at night. we're making breaded oysters for dinner this evening, partenered with grape juice, many breads, brie, cheddar and salad avec le vinegre.

last night, we read mark twain outloud.we spend our waking hours outside or at a window. i am with two friends that i met in cannes.

writing has become my very own travel companion. for, with it, i am never alone...just irregularly lonely. for the past four seconds the clouds above my head ripped themselves from one another and let out the greatest cry i've heard from nature, in nearly ten months. it is not raining outside. just thunder. it rumbles from a distance, but france is only so big. i can hear everything. in this six story house, i am alone. not another person is near. i have my journal in my lap and hear the murmuring of another toungue upon the outer surface of the shudders that shelter me from the clouds that don't rain. my tea is now the perfect temperature. and in such contentment i ask myself, what is my purpose of being here? well, what is my purpose of being elsewhere? but to be who i am and see what i see, that is purpose enough for me, i guess. so i agree with myself and move on to other questions.

constant curiousity illuminates the greatest of adventurers. maybe it is silly to write and write and write what ought not be written. but i find joy in the construction of my own thoughts upon paper. writing cures, as does chalk, if you draw the right lines on the board.

and you read and you read and you read, and it makes you a better writer? maybe. what does improve ones abilities is practice, i feel. and AT LAST! my mumbling provides me with a well-utilized vocabulary. well enough to express the simplest ideas, atleast. it is because i speak so much...that i am able to choose my words carefully, when actually listened to. maybe not carefully, but inventively, none the less. or maybe i am just wordy. regardless, it is you, who has chosen to read this.

two doors just slammed. one to this room and one downstairs. the murmurs stopped. the birds found this an opportunity to elate themselves with song. my tea is gone now. my feet are cold. my hands lack the circulation that they once had, before i began this prose. one child speaks outside. seemingly, to no one. that child is not me. with another, he is now. they run and from one end of rue charles dengibeaud to another- they count and whisper sacred words to eachother. eight syllables was his last sentence. i cannot gather the content of his childish french, only the fact that he yelled it and upon the sixth syllable...a bird began to call to him softly. he ignored its attention and ran towards the river. gone now. now, it's just me again. and two closed doors. but in all reality, i feel doors no longer exist. what exists is the chair i sit on now and the tea that i drink. beyond that i have yet to discover.

now a motorcycle is outside. i may or may not go look out the window to see who it is. oh, it is the boys parents. he went with them, from what i hear. undefined, their faces are to me.

in the distance, two tones of an ambulance exchange turns. i am free to do what i want to right now. i believe i will go work on a project i am in the process of realizing. back to the drawing boards...

and no worries, upon each entry, i guarantee...my style will change. todays was a bit stream of consciousness...whereas tomorrow might be a haiku. who knows. i don't think anyone does. and now that you're expecting it...tomorrow will most definitely not be a haiku. got to keep you on your toes. the few of you that are up on them.