22.06.02 Mercredi: la ville rose
Sky of milky blue, cloudless, modulating into a deeper but more diffident shade. Bleached russet, ochre, burnished persimmon and ripe jambu. Here pigeons are more daring, avoiding oncoming traffic sometimes on foot. Light confers lustre on leaves, sets shadows on the facades of buildings.
Sipping attenuated coffee opposite the entrance to the Basilique St. Sernin, apart from the infernal roar of a passing motorcycle, the atmosphere is simply perfect - studiedly shaded, precise colour-concordance, air cool and inert. Sparing chatter, squealing swallows (robins? orioles, thinks J.), padding saunter of pedestrians. And thankfully, how few of them there are!
rue de Taur is exceptionally picturesque: pawn-shaped balusters, burnt sienna, "garnet and pencil-lead" colour scheme (cf. Bordeaux: sandy clamshell, weatherlashed sepia, "uncooked wholewheat pasta")
Sheltered by a venerable maple on a quay of the Garonne, small mound of dogshit three metres away (but fortunately downwind from me), anonymous violinist performing practice passages in the apartment above my rear. An obnoxious street-cleaner has just swept the shitstack away, dispersing its foul fragrance into the currents of air flowing beneath my nose. Now there is a daubed shitsmear across the sidewalk; a Pollock swish-splodge. Assortment of summertime insects roost on my trousers, on J.'s nose, on my arm where I flick them away, assuming them to be inanimate particles which will not form pulverised pasty pigments when accidentally squished. Beleaguered by swarms of divebombing insects, we adjourn to the riverbank proper, copiously shaded but still bug-prone. Flies circle our heads, never landing, but still a loathesome thought.
We visit the Jardin des Plantes, a prettily-preened piece of greenery where nuclear family foursomes frolic, geriatrics vegetate, couples stroll. There is a most curious species here,
Cupressacees Calocedrus Decurrens
a fairy-tale sort of tree, a marooned stage prop from the forest which Little Red Riding Hood traverses to get to her granny's: waxy to the point of artifice, plasticky sheen, unnaturally varnished trunk and branches, eerily anthropomorphic.
There are only so many fat-soaked mushy beans one can eat in the course of an evening. Duck and beans seem to me an unimaginative and far from optimal pairing. Surely the addition of an assertive herb or alternate vegetable would supply the necessary counterpoint. I am thinking rosemary and shallots/celery/leek. As it is it lacks sufficient dimensions to keep me engaged throughout. What is more, it is exceedingly liable to congeal into a molassey mess if you do not dispose of it rapidly enough. This is food to induce sloth, listlessness, languor.
Sky of milky blue, cloudless, modulating into a deeper but more diffident shade. Bleached russet, ochre, burnished persimmon and ripe jambu. Here pigeons are more daring, avoiding oncoming traffic sometimes on foot. Light confers lustre on leaves, sets shadows on the facades of buildings.
Sipping attenuated coffee opposite the entrance to the Basilique St. Sernin, apart from the infernal roar of a passing motorcycle, the atmosphere is simply perfect - studiedly shaded, precise colour-concordance, air cool and inert. Sparing chatter, squealing swallows (robins? orioles, thinks J.), padding saunter of pedestrians. And thankfully, how few of them there are!
rue de Taur is exceptionally picturesque: pawn-shaped balusters, burnt sienna, "garnet and pencil-lead" colour scheme (cf. Bordeaux: sandy clamshell, weatherlashed sepia, "uncooked wholewheat pasta")
Sheltered by a venerable maple on a quay of the Garonne, small mound of dogshit three metres away (but fortunately downwind from me), anonymous violinist performing practice passages in the apartment above my rear. An obnoxious street-cleaner has just swept the shitstack away, dispersing its foul fragrance into the currents of air flowing beneath my nose. Now there is a daubed shitsmear across the sidewalk; a Pollock swish-splodge. Assortment of summertime insects roost on my trousers, on J.'s nose, on my arm where I flick them away, assuming them to be inanimate particles which will not form pulverised pasty pigments when accidentally squished. Beleaguered by swarms of divebombing insects, we adjourn to the riverbank proper, copiously shaded but still bug-prone. Flies circle our heads, never landing, but still a loathesome thought.
We visit the Jardin des Plantes, a prettily-preened piece of greenery where nuclear family foursomes frolic, geriatrics vegetate, couples stroll. There is a most curious species here,
Cupressacees Calocedrus Decurrens
a fairy-tale sort of tree, a marooned stage prop from the forest which Little Red Riding Hood traverses to get to her granny's: waxy to the point of artifice, plasticky sheen, unnaturally varnished trunk and branches, eerily anthropomorphic.
There are only so many fat-soaked mushy beans one can eat in the course of an evening. Duck and beans seem to me an unimaginative and far from optimal pairing. Surely the addition of an assertive herb or alternate vegetable would supply the necessary counterpoint. I am thinking rosemary and shallots/celery/leek. As it is it lacks sufficient dimensions to keep me engaged throughout. What is more, it is exceedingly liable to congeal into a molassey mess if you do not dispose of it rapidly enough. This is food to induce sloth, listlessness, languor.
posted by D at 02:19
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home