I am back again to wander in the village of our Secret Provence. Its streets are so dense with houses of all sizes pressed up cheek to cheek and each one with a story to tell. I want to push my palm to read their fortunes, most certainly that of a certain straggling Art Deco creature at the edge of the fortified walls holding back as if she were abandoned at a Bastille Day bal.
This is not an architectural style that is common at all in this part of Provence, so how adventuresome, how hopeful, someone must have been to add the ironwork curlicues and fanned rock-pocked glass suspended above the front door, just large enough for a loved one to dart out, giving a final peck goodbye under the rain.
Looking deeper, the haphazardly painted moss falls away and there it is, that 18th century stone. Solid, despite a proximity to a Rhone River that pulls so strongly here that it cuts across the maps. I want to pick a piece of that cement off and put it in my pocket.
Or if I could, I would take in hand this lonely girl to help her remember who she is.
In the 16th century, Henry Bull translated Luther's commentary on the fifteen psalms. Amidst them arrived this: "Whiles all things seeme to fall wracke and ruine"...Hence the phrase. But do they? Do they?
Ces traces me marque et me semble vivant.