One
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
Friday the next afternoon I made Grasse, Castellane, Digne, Sisteron. Friday night I cooked a can of stew over a fire and moved on and camped in a field. I had been travelling thru the beautiful mountains of southern France and I cannot describe how great it was. The road was good but narrow, and most of the time there was a drop of a couple hundred feet or more off the edge and no guard rails most of the time. My God - a slip and that is all he wrote.
The weather was good on Friday. It is spring and things are green except above the tree line in the mountains. The road twists and turns, ascends, descends, climbs high on the side of a mountain then falls into a valley. The French villages are great. Everything is great. Friday night was clear as a bell.
Back in maybe the late eighties I quit sculpture and took up bad-poetry writing. Looking through it now, I find that some of it concerned events of this trip. I would have a better recollection then, it being in the past of about twenty years, as opposed to the forty something years it is now. So I will consult it where applicable and I have decided to use some of the phrased imagery, chopping it up and applying it to the current content. So the more flowery writing will be from such extrapolated sources. However there is really not much content there so its use will be sparse.
I woke in southern France in the mountains south of Grenoble. I was off the road behind a bank of big-trunk trees, on a barren flat plain with a dark mountain peak in the distant far side of the valley.
(16 of 278)
Next Page
