Room with a View

What we see is a bottle of champagne in a metal bucket halfway spent with ice cubes and a white cloth for the holding. We see the sun in the water, ducked in reflections. I see birds soaring that aren't birds. Underneath the piers, the concrete pins, in the bowl of the sea, holding. I look away, and the tightness disappears. It must be that the trees and the walls don't feel anything, no sort of movement that would push them even a millimetre to the left. Contemplating is a sort of moving, clouds moving in the sky mutely watching the earth, and some corps there with a crepuscular existence is watching on. It's only in my watching, in my mental movement from here to anywhere other than here, that I experience a déplacement.

For a spiraling moment, a snapshot framed by fingers, we were in a room that gives on the sea. Made to order; made to remember, with the sea in front of me, ships, lights, gulls flying, clouds patching up the sky and unsewing themselves, colouring water, chopping it. The moment spun the ball on the turtle's back; the bacon streaks from ago in the water dissolved. The air flew.

It was as if in the stretching of living, in the spinning efforts of destiny weaving, in that simple act of being while going, I was given accolades by a smaller pair of hands to hold up to my head. We both held them there, your hands over mine. Without seeing (and without wanting to) the rest of destiny's drawing, I was given the gift of being here, on this couch, next to the only other person there is.

I think I love writing because I always miss what I am writing about. I go around it, through it, spin it, but I never stop at it because that would mean the words would foam behind me and dissolve in the rest of the sea, and there would be no trace. I'll never get to anything through it. There is pleasure in constantly missing it, in just going. In just going to New Caledonia.

You and writing. Remember what I said? In ten years, I want to still have both. But actually; I have neither you, nor writing. In ten years, I want to not have either still. I want to be in movement, in déplacement, to bascule entre subtleties, languages, words, to get here by moving through here, to jump, swim, walk, breathe to being here and then to keep going. I was not born a tree, or a wall, so I don't imagine I should be one.