Tuesday, June 7 Wind whispers in my ear. I am making love with a stranger. So cool but it speaks to me warmly, tenderly.
The wind is barely perceptible. The water looks like it's flowing as it is. Out my open window, light and wind join to give a shifting waxy glow to the leaves on the trees. Compound flower? The tree has hundreds of lacy, long white flower tongues. You begin to understand why the Bretons made lace and why it's so sensual. So many openings for fingers to slip through like a man in a jail house with fingers poking through the bars, salivating for something unobtainable.
Wednesday, June 8The Bretons are making béton today. A concrete walkway. Pounding, scraping, hammering. I go up to the attic, 20 degrees warmer, where there's a mattress, fresh aqua sheets. I make love to myself, listening to men work, imagining myself as the 60 year old boss's water break.