Here it is clear blue, peaceful and clear. It’s like millions of sheets of bright blue cellophane glistening over one another, endlessly overlapping in a continuous loop, floating away with a gust of wind as cellophane does, crackling under the gaze of the sun which is suspended beyond the Pyrenees - as perfectly as how a five year old would paint it, and under saturns watchful eye it lights this place all up, in the way that a projector in a cinema would light up its own world too. I’m on a tiny road circling down France, winding down to Catalonia but it could be eldolrado in this light, past endless flat french farming towns, the pale brick-plaster which builds the villages, roads aligned with white, leafless trees who look as though they have stood there for all of time, surveying this flat land framed by mountains, where the wine is squeezed from the grape and the bread rolled into shape. Do the French appreciate it? I have to admit the only thing I’m not enjoying about France are the French. But between all the grumpy, right-winged old tarts there is the occasional crystal-eyed girl, with hair loose, brown and long, with her hands free of the stench of tobacco and her mind free of the confines of her comforts.
The sea is distant now, I’m sure that at some point on this trip we will both wind past each other again. In a few weeks I’ll do what I haven’t done for four years and sink into your endless blue abyss, sinking deeper and deeper until you fill up my tanks, and I’ll feel the beauty of fresh air again.
Next stop Barcelona. The mountains have started to surround us and engulf us. Man is scarce in this empty chasm of trees. The bus went on through the French border but the light had gone, it’s dark. The blonde haired girl adjacent to my seat, turned and stared across for a moment. It was dark and I just couldn’t see, but something right there lit a fire in me. before she turned away again, i was sure she had blue eyes like cellophane
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