Often I am in the garrett writing until six. On nice days it is hard to get myself up there
and to keep my butt in the chair. When I've put in my self-imposed goal of hours writing,
I slip my camera into my pocket and go for a walk around the village or out to
the surrounding countryside, chasing the last rays of the sun.
There are wonderful old buildings around here and I love the way
the gold tones of the sunset glance off the uneven surfaces of the old stones.
Fig trees in Spring are simultaneously knobby and fecund, like a young woman
who is ugly and beautiful at the same time. The French have a term for it
une laide belle. One could say that this tree, c'est un arbre beau et le laid
qui a la fécondité d'une femme. If you didn't know better and saw one in
Spring, could you possibly forsee the sensual, fragrant glory
that this small, green fruit will become by the Fall?
I love this house on the lane that leads back to the village - its artful gate,
its green painted timbers, its many shapes of windows, the way its face reflects
the last rays of the sun on its way to the bed sur la plaine du Lauragais.
Soleil écrase baisers!