this morning feels quiet, but really it's not. there's cars and planes and wind through the leaves of plants. there's noises of people on the street below. i wonder how violette leduc would capture this moment.
she would give the leaves and planes some motivation for moving the way they do. they're competing. they're restless. or perhaps they're dying; falling from the sky. she would place her own withering onto them. or she may locate her joy in them. or in the sound of the dog barking, or the stacking of crockery next door. there's a rhythmic pulse that she disentangles from her surroundings. she bleeds into this chair, this paving, these plants. each time she touches earth she is digging inside herself, looking for a lost feeling. she is beyond self. at this moment i understand.
for a few seconds i felt alone, despite the sounds and plants and the sun that strokes me. then the cat arrives. she sits on the table directly in front of me. she says "i am not alone". she surveys the moving plants and her ears move sideways and forwards to capture the many sounds. she falls into the sunshine. she folds into me.
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