Listening to one story (tv, French crime thriller) and reading another (first one of my own, then Joy Williams) and they blend.

Been here for a week. That could mean anything, with or without pronouns. Listening to Saul Bellow and Percival Everett during the 19.2-mile drive north to work next week because André Breton wasn’t available for the ridealong. Intending to come back. To do more than survive, and come back.

Blaise Cendrars discovered Henry Miller. Wonder what Henry’d been before that. Like “America” before Amerigo, or was there less in the name? For anyone who’s counting, that’s three times francophone now and a certain synchronicity with recent inklings of a Bourgognese cottage or a flat in Montmartre.

With words, anything is within reach and I’m just a needle on the infinitesimal evergreen forest floor remembering the fall and trying to stand for a better view.