EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALNovember 12, 1998
Cameyrac et St. Sulpice
Confiture Bonne Maman is not as sweet as the strawberry freezer
jam de ma mere but it spreads with chunky strawberry bits and dutifully blankets the
squishy pain de compagne. My mouth’s roof is tattered with crusty bread
lesions. These are treated with the hot and milky chocolate substance. Its administration
must strictly adhere to temperature codes.
What does a country whose inhabitants consider eating well a national
birthright have to offer a fat-conscious vegetarian non-drinker? The gastronomic
celebrations taking place within our realm consist of not much more than successful skim
milk location and the simmering of a pure vegetable soup. This blasphemous condition
evokes the necessity to explore France’s inedible offerings, namely the light.
Golden threads pierce the bedcover. The shutters provide nowhere near a
tight fit and the beams are a petri dish of dancing dust particles. The bedcover is white.
Tiny quilted squares provide a bumpy cast-shadow, rough-canvas situation. The topography
of my knees sophisticates the composition. Even on this rainy day the poplars in M.
Rosaven’s field are glowing. His grand maison boasts a turret illuminated by the
reflective clouds. It’s about all we can see of the house from behind the poplars.
The website is finally up and running. Rich has published our
travelogue to date and today we are flooded with amusing and constructive feedback. Now
lies the daily task of troubleshooting and developing new ideas for features and the
layout, as well as improving the writing and directing of our life-plot. Rich is calling Mosey
the WebDocumentary.
M. et Mdme. Rosaven have us and our Vilain Canadian Laundry
Installation for another week. We have decided that this swimming pool of a bathtub
and working phoneline are too good to give up after such a short time and so Erika at the
gites bureau has made arrangements for us to extend our stay at Place de Beaumont.
I have finally finished a song begun in Ballyferriter. It has a
syncopated rhythm and was difficult to put lyrics to with appropriate phrasing. I’m
working hard to put an edge into my compositions but find it is a little difficult when
there isn’t much to lament (as my brother David, a professional musician muses, the
songs have to be about a drug habit or suicidal tendencies in order to have a half-decent
rock-edge). Instead I am trying to sophisticate my melodies and rhythms. The guitar
provides a welcome creative change from the sketchbook and computer. Singing is a
pleasurable sensation and Rich doesn’t seem to mind my natural projection.
