I’ve been watching a couple in their early forties in the square across the street, talking very intently under a tree, amongst the parked cars. There’s a kid with them, a boy of twelve or thirteen, that skinny, floppy-haired look they have, sometimes taking part in the conversation, sometimes stamping off, bouncing a ball on the pavement. He looks bored …
A film noir drizzle is spangling the windows tonight, puddles fragmenting the street below, the wet sweep of traffic like windscreen wipers: reveal and erase, erase and reveal.
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So here I am, under a blue sky, turning my life around in my hands as though it was a book in a foreign language.
The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.
EXIT 17 is just somewhere on a motorway, in grey weather
How strange the future looks, now that it’s here at last.
From my balcony, the enigmatic, silent, meditative movements of a crane, high above a building site a few blocks away; like Christ in Majesty
Vive Macron! Vive la République! Vive la France! À bas le nazisme!
I posted this on my publisher’s website a little over seven years ago. The pestilence has been far more deadly than I ever imagined. I spent the last days of the summer as a writer in residence at La Torre de Dalt, in Catalunya; a beautiful medieval building, a little palace of marble floors, elaborate dark mirrors and vaulted ceilings, …
Dubinsky’s front door opened and a girl came out, turning to say something to the doorman before trotting down the steps. I saw her the other day, leaving the house as I was going in: pale, red hair. Andy called out to her. “Sally! Come and say hello sweetheart!” “Sally Dunbar,” she said, holding her hand out. “You must be …