it was hot, last summer. the gardens, dusty, the winds out of Africa. You have to see the Hall of Mirrors, You have to see the Hall of Mirrors. We did. It was crowded. It glittered. We took pictures. A document. We were hot. We were thirsty. We sat at a dainty table. ordered some polite afternoon refreshment. Versailles closed. I was within 30 feet of that brown giant of Napoleon taking the crown from the Pope. just 30 feet. and I really wanted to see it. to glean something. Josephine, I had seen. maybe that's all I needed to see. I cried to Paula, I get it. please, no more brown paintings. Rubens had turned into a pasty bore. My potato nosed lover was not a consolation. Do not remember the Vermeer, other than to say 'it is very small.' and the walls were red. or not. too much, too much.
the photos haunt me. how to turn this delicate drawing into a 'something' is on my mind.
a tornado hit Revere this morning. just a spit across the water.
i was supposed to be drawing. it is I. and Paula. and a bunch of ghosts...err..tourists.