Saturday @ 5:03 am, Valros
I love the loud bird chatter in the morning. I love the town bells that chime the hour. I love the vineyards along the Avenue de Pézenas. I love the tile floors in this house, the way they feel dusty and cool underfoot. I love the tall windows that open out to narrow balconies overlooking the street. I love the quiet of this village. The way a bit of conversation might drift up, but so rarely, and only briefly. I love hanging clothes on a line to dry, even knowing as I do, that I would hate to have to do it at home.
I love the way time feels luxurious and spacious early in the day then seems to accelerate and contract by afternoon. I love even the familiar weariness that settles in, the gentle reminder that this body is unaccustomed to being in this space, this time.
I spend the mornings in the past. Mining memory, of course, but also: war documentaries, war novels, war stories. A handbook for the rules of engagement. The past is my daily present.
Yesterday: Stood out on the narrow balcony in the cool blue morning. Wrote, drank coffee, read, napped. Closed all the windows against the sudden rainstorm. Made big salad and 6-minute eggs, their yolks still soft and “jammy.” Watched war movies in bed, took half-hearted notes. Tried to read. Napped instead. Woke to the brightest afternoon. Took a ride into Béziers to wander around an open-air shopping centre, and have dinner (gin cocktail, big salad, soft cheeses). Ride back, attempt another documentary, sleep.
Today: The famed Saturday market in Pézenas! Take new notes, transcribe notes from earlier in the week. Keep mind and heart open, light. Take in all the light.