Thought shapes the world. The thought: if only . . . The thought: I am.
As I write these words, I invest in their validity. Ça ne fait rien.
What is exotic? What is beautiful? What is the right place
to be? What is a mistake? What difference does it make?
What’s so funny? What’s so not?
I love traveling, but I don’t have to leave home to go into the wilderness.
I strip down to no conclusions and run free among the jailed.
I give my heart permission to light fireworks of passion in the aisles of Safeway
and again here, in the public market on Sunday. When the man selling tomatoes
noticed me noticing him. And winked.
Here, in France, the thing to do is linger, thoughtless and undisturbed, available
to the taste, to the pleasure of the mystery. Un cafe. Un verre de vin.
Un garçon beau et tranquil. Un matin. Une soirée. Un rêve.
Le Mystère. The changes in the fabric of my soul I so purely welcome.
from my 2009 travels in France and Spain at the end of a most disastrous year.