Another embarrassed angel.
Well
this isn't Britain, is it? It could be the geckoes that give it away or
the quality of the algae (rare), or the size and colour of the
crickets, or the white earth and purple shadow and the fact that the
bees are blue. We could be in Palestine or Bel Air (does the grass that
bothers to grow here even know it's supposed to be green?) but in fact
we're in Languedoc… Cathar Country (acute and obtuse hilltop strongholds
stand vacant for 900 years)… home to the vine and to fields of
sunflowers all past their prime and eerily bowed like shower-heads at
exactly the same angle and in exactly the same direction in their
millions… and my parent's home for the past year. They live in a small
snail-shell-shaped village called Puisallicon (Salty Well) in one of the
newer buildings at its base. The pool's now finished, and so is the
cinema. The seats are brand new (Europe's only cinema seat factory is
apparently very nearby) and it even has a clock - which now I come to
think of it isn't that common a feature, but my dad's cinema in Arbroath
used to have one and so – well in fact it had this one. It's the same
clock, the very clock my dad would keep an eye on in his teens to make
sure he wasn't late for rehearsals. It lights up green. (He'd miss the
first half hour of a movie as well, to make it more engaging.)
As
I write this two turtle doves are falling out over some seed at my
feet. They sqwark like Graham Chapman. I'm here for four days, which
should be enough time for whatever has infested the far end of my
mattress back in Brixton to die of starvation. On Saturday evening I
accompanied my mum to the church at Puisallicon's apex, the same pale
ochre as the dog on its steps. I spent a lot of the sermon considering
the priest's hairpiece. I was considering it charitably. It didn't look
anything like the rest of his hair but I thought: We don't scoff at
make-up because it doesn't look like real face, why are we so sniffy
about wigs? I also considered a painting of a saint being welcomed
aboard by the baby Jesus in a cloud. I thought: He didn't get up to that
much as a kid though, did he? He was just baby-shaped TO BEGIN WITH so
he could get out of Mary. At least Krishna stole some butter, I think.
And it's just occured to me: What happened to all the fuss made over
Jesus when he was born? Thirty years later when he performed his first
miracle at the wedding in Cana did everyone go: "Ah! Finally!!!"
Village
announcements are broadcast from the water tower. The wind's getting
up. In the neighbouring village of Puimisson (Soft-water Well) a
mechanic is practising jazz on a mandolin. Mum wants to know if she can
get me anything. Dad has some Droopy we can watch later on.
Tuesday, 11 September 2007
trickle trickle buzz
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