8:01 am
I'm going to die in Europe. My French will be ridiculed as amateur, Belgian, or a trifle bit more Spanish sounding with accidentally rolling 'r's and the general disarray of language barriers and then the separation of myself from my belongings or my love. There are windmills and bike routes, canals and mountains, tree valleys, plumage... When I close my eyes and think of Alsace. It is a mysterious blur like our waiting eyes on the bridge facing south to see another flash about the skyline, the lightning... I hear the airplanes bursting through it all above. Screaming through to the finish line.
The coffee is good. the morning is blissfully cool. the words are not flowing. the world is shaking and rattling itself dry again and the window full of plants receives sunlight with open bellied arms having a hard existence allowed through the tunnel-sieve burrowing machine of time as illusion. Study it now. All so quickly.
Production time is tantamount. Learn to write shorthand. Pocket notebook. Slivers of thoughts and papers. Pictures. Video. Landscapes. Wine journeys. Clips for the bikes. Charging stations. Food. Rivers. Train rides through Belgium. Luxembourg. Flowers. Wildlife. Parc Nationale. Worth excitement and the summer quarter is a slow burn up to that wild approaching life.
