Perhaps today, June 18th, I write about my observations. Perhaps today I tell you what I saw. I’ll avoid all transformations, I’ll avoid grabbing a body in place of a pen. Today I’ll write in ink.
I calculated the expenses for this trip. £1.75 for the trip one way, but I have to get home somehow so double that, and an iced latte. Guess how much the latte was. £3.60. And the ice. 30p. And the milk alternative. 40p. That’s £7.70 for inspiration, for a place where I can reignite that authorial bone, the authorial bone that has proven to cost more than £7.70 to awaken. Add another £5 because I have a symbiotic relationship with the cavity-causing bacteria living within my enamel. I can’t afford tooth gems so I might as well eat myself sick with sugar, or maybe I’ll feed my pretties till they reach the pulp and sing a song. Maybe the ache will create a euthermia in that osteoporotic bone. I say all this to distract from the fact that no observations were made today. Perhaps La Maison Highbury was the wrong place to go. Perhaps I need to go to church.
The only thing I did witness was a man respectfully approaching the woman next to me. She was gorgeous, it only made sense. It was the only thing that suggested I understood something of this world. They spoke in a bit of spanish and a bit of italian. Summer languages. It rolled off their tongues like a languid sweaty afternoon, with ripe nectarines squeezed between fingers unafraid of a little tacky mess. Each word projected the purple hues of seared corneas over the green leaves swaying in their soft exhale. And then he left. Just like that. All of a sudden I knew nothing of this world all over again. So I went home.