A new order seems established in the childhood home.
The episode of the disease has drawn a mask on the face of my father, finally pushing toward another age: the great - the last always. Pallor which froze this winter - and worried me - nevertheless disappeared. His stance is firm again, his steady hand. There are only more slowly in him, as if time around it's body had changed its flow quarter. But summer is coming and it holds its chalk garden.
salads and bean seedlings growing under glass melons, tomatoes on the verge of producing. He introduced me to the scarecrow he planted in the middle of its strawberry to deter blackbirds, plum promising harvest.
I remain attentive. Attentive to his business, his words.
I observed watching the rust on roses, hoeing the flower beds with a tool, its eating asparagus with difficulty and gasping after his bad teeth. I speak of him with my mother, from her and her appetite. His existence fills me with the intensity of a sting in this time of life when capsized certainties, but I can not say, to tell him. It is only natural that I travel to his home: see, I am his daughter, and he is the old man. That my presence gives him pleasure or not is not a question. Just passing day, the fruits ripen and color of the sky.
As he went to a game of cards, I want to win the shore, not knowing at what stage the ocean will it inspires.
Low tide. Light wind nor'wester, gray cliffs offer shelter.
Not a cat in this weekday.
For me the ocean is like a powerful source. His presence, his rumor. It is connected to the depths of origin. It is connected to my father was born here. And he comes every twelve hours above the mineral world up to the border territory of men, out of reach of equinoctial storms. Sometimes I see
between trees tower in my village, dressed up in traditional benchmark fanciful gargoyles that I had never noticed far.
The rock, he is at the front. It takes the tide, wind, storms. He draws the coast, inlets and headlands on which I walk to vertigo. Suddenly I
extent torture material exultées then buried, compressed rocks if they have crumbled, wedding cores of rock and giving them more resistant forms of almonds. Fractures and veins shift blocks, pieces of slate that impressive passing and remember watching them - because many think only of sun and where they are going to lie to take up the burning.
space is clear before me, wind in my neck. Childhood and now closely together.
Françoise Renaud © - June 2008
be continued in fall 2009
"Brittany Jade" Photos Françoise Renaud
Welcome to the writer
http://www.francoiserenaud.com/
.........................
Portrait of the writer as reader:
Jogging desire
In profile it splits the wind
his mane of fire
sets majestically over the horizon moved her sweater
breath rushes
in the future of his nostalgia
pitch crescendo of his time
smooth black pebbles volcanoes tenuous
scope on a pearly moon violin
to drown in the blades of a
its infinite sea voice scolds the pristine peaks of the absolute granite
where she was born
Marie-Lydie Joffre
18-12-2008
................................ .................................................. .................................................. .................................................. ......................
