Later in the yard, the wind is delicate with me. A perfect lover caressing me here and there. How can one write on -- literally on -- the wind? This is the problem. The answer, my friend, is rippling in the wind. Monday, June 6 Gray all day, but I walk one hour to town and one hour back. Nauseated by all this effort. Candles, incense, black espadrilles at Le Clerc. Visited a bibliotèque. They have literary and art magazines plus Suzanne Valadon and the Princesse de Clèves. Walking back from town the wind is relatively quiet. Occasionally it whispers to me. What is it saying? I must have known once. French wind jiggling the Queen Anne's lace along the river bank. Third day here and found the other half of the house. A door was stuck. I thought it was a work room. After lunch I went out the rear window, nude. The hill behind the house almost abuts. Then I came in and lying on the banquet table made love to myself, pretending I was covered with an arranged salade-niçoise and Frenchmen -- fishermen, truckers, workers of 60-70 years old -- were eating the lettuce, thin string beans, dripping tomatoes, black olives, tuna, well-seasoned potatoes form my body. They discussed their food the entire meal, were very tactile. -->Next