Thinking about Paris this morning, as the trees outside my window wave in and out of shadow. I miss it, I miss living there, suddenly, maybe it is the huge courtyard out of my bedroom window, and the way that sounds carryr across from the apartments opposite, filtered through trees. It reminds me of that time of Parisian night when everyone is getting ready for dinner,,,,, clink of wine glasses, ovens opening and closing, wine corks being popped.
There were two courtyards that I came to know intimately there. They both had this quality of intimacy and privacy, of quietness, and small noises at the same time. They were always cool, and tree-filled, and inspiring. One was filled with plants, and had beautiful tile floors, the other had one huge lone tree. They made me feel safe, as if I were settling the edges of my own mind out into a larger parameter, they became a part of what I was thinking about, mind-encased, and infiltrated everything that I was writing, reading, and dreaming about.
I have been reading Colette fairly constantly, but this morning also picked up 'A Moveable Feast' by Hemingway, having read it twice but not really remembering it.
Even though the book starts with the opposite season, I have the same feelings now, a central spine that that things are set up well now, that they can be new, and are changed.
"When we came to Paris it was clear and cold and lovely. The city had accommodated itself to winter, there was good wood for sale at the wood and coal place across our street, and there were braziers outside of many of the good cafes so that you could keep warm on the terraces. We burned boulets which were molded, egg-shaped lumps of coal dust, on the wood fire, and on the streets the winter light was beautiful." (11)
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