My wanders through T’s backyard wood were once quotidian and now keenly missed. A midnight creek dip in the rain, a buck that yawped at me in a meadow, a lingering embrace in public privacy—all gossamers of memory enriching the foliage. And like gossamers, fragile.
Bah to the beach-side condos. Norwegian forest dwelling any day!
The seasons of laziness are varied and mutable: for in winter one cozies under blankets consuming literature, but in summer one rests one’s eyes—never plunged fully in dream, but thinking free-form in branded consciousness—amidst a semi-deserted meadow of the Bois de Vincennes.
Reposed in my hollowed wake upon the tickling wildgrass, marveling the ethereal contrast of cinquefoil leaf against sky, I ruminate into the breeze: a newfound ecstasy, my allergies, meeting Chelsey in fifteen, ants roving, and then… a blankness of mind often so tragically unreachable. Such is summer: warm ease and mindlessness.
The serene meadow at the Jardin des Serres d’Auteuil in which I quasi-napped alongside the daffodil patch. In this eudemonic spot my grass-imprinted hands were kissed by curlicues of vernal breeze, my mind coaxed into rare stillness.
Such idle woolgathering was rudely arrested by an anonymous man who woke me, asked for the name of an adjacent tree, and bluntly segued into asking me to dinner. I quickly rejected. As I bee-lined toward my waiting bicycle, I rued the man for shattering my fragile blanket of peace, my transitory token of relaxation in this Parisian urban overload.
