This morning I open the curtains, a pale, misty day, I fortify myself with a delicious breakfast, I go to see my neighbor George, who has agreed to share his internet access with me and suggests I repay him with sessions of French conversation. So I finally have internet « at home », slow but at least I have it. At noon the sun comes out, my neighbor Liz knocks at my door and invites me to lunch at a small restaurant nearby to thank me for taking her shopping by car. After lunch we stop at Brodsky bookstore run by an Rick, an old hippie, who showed us used books of photographs – ah temptation – but I resisted and next week he will bring one worn out book (of his) which he loves and I will show him the book of D.Bloomfield about the Four Corners and mine about the forest: Lisières du Temps.
On returning, Cedric helps me with all my computer problems.
The light becomes perfect, just the way I like it. I leave towards the north of Taos up to the metal bridge which overhangs the Rio Grande.
The temperature is rising or is it is the superb mauve cashmere sweater I found two days ago in a small second hand shop that keeps me warm? Or have I got used to the cold?
I take some photos around as a way to tame this new space. I read the poems of D.H.Lawrence written in Taos. And I constantly re-open Debra Bloomfield’s book: Photos of sceneries and of small, old churches in the Four Corners (Utah, Arizona, New Mexico and Colorado).
A strange dialogue takes place between the vast landscapes often taken with almost no light and the intimacy of the interiors of the churches. No artifice.
Sitting now next to the stove in an old pink armchair worthy of an English interior, I can see the night sky turning blue and then black. I know that above the house the moon is shining. Earlier, when returning home, it looked so pale through the golden tops of the trees. I feel more contemplative than ever, another way to tame this place. Living here is so different from travelling by car in the Southwest as we did with Cecile.
Hey, I hear in the distance a siren, exactly the same sound as in New York when one hears them through double-paned hotel windows. Pitch black beyond the window.
As usual, I have forgotten my tea, now cold.