Sleeping in

Posted on 10 September 2004

I’m sleeping later these days. I’m remembering dreams. I feel almost quiet inside.

I have begun a scrapbook of my writings, dreams, and thoughts of this summer. I am surprised as I copy out my proprioceptive writes: they are much more coherent than I thought at the time.

The air has changed in the village. It is fall in the morning and I wear a sweater to La Place to have my morning coffee and write in my journal; but by afternoon, the summer returns and I must strip down to almost nothing (it’s been in the mid thirties this week.)

Ruth, the musician, is usually sitting at another table, eating her croissant, drinking her “grande creme” (coffee with hot milk) and reading a newspaper when I show up. We never sit together, never intrude on the other, although this morning I stopped briefly at her table to thank her for the appetizers, champagne, and house tour she gave Rob and me last night. Ruth is full of charm, lightness and laughter. This morning I told her that I like her, that I sense something kindred in her and she says that it is a shame that we don’t share a common language. I say this may well not matter. When one in not proficient in a language, one must reduce ideas down to their simplest form and so are clearer (or is it that I am not good at explaining myself?)

Last night at Ruth’s was delightful. Rob and Bedding were there too and Ruth showed us her house or rather, two houses. One is under construction and although they are beside each other, one has not been used for years. The living house, formerly owned by a carpenter, is built on many levels, and Ruth has transformed the patio at the back with a small bamboo fence, palm tree in the miniature garden, and swinging hammock that made me feel as if I were on a South Seas island. Both of her houses and her future plans for them (she plans to join them at back and have a concert hall) are wonderful as is she. Although a few years older than me, Ruth is like a young girl in her enthusiasm.

After our time at Ruth’s, Rob and I wandered down from the town to the garden of Rachel and James Waugh on the invitation of Alice, their daughter who I have known since she was nine. Alice, granddaughter of Evelyn Waugh, plans to return to the town for six months next year to write a novel. She is here visiting with two young male friends, also in their twenties, and both Rob and I have been enjoying their youthful company. Also included in the garden party are Helene and her daughter Laura and grandson, Guillame; and Elena, Bedding’s daughter, and her love, Martin, and their enfant son, Sil. Oh yes, and Fred, as he calls himself, the American version of Frederick, who has travelled widely in Canada and the U.S. and who likes to entertain in both languages. So we all sat under the stars and ate salads and spoke mostly in French. Although I said little and left early (as is my habit, early riser that I am), and went home to dream of babies, waking when Rob returned at midnight, the evening was more than enjoyable.

Today, Rob and I will go to Toulouse, to wander and spend the night. Our mission is to find a really cheap hotel, not too sleazy, clean, so we can explore the city, eat dinner, and find out if any nightlife – hopefully music – exists in this fourth largest city in France.

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