Just before the brow of the hill, where Walker Lane angles into Mary Street, I leapt over the seeping gutter, correcting my balance with the metal upright of the street sign. Looking up, my eyes saw France.
France is the state of mind you have when you have lost your mind to a whimsy. I suppose there is a this-goes-with-that quality at play. The getting of whimsy is subjective, to each his own. But what could be more conducive to a French vision than white lace, lavender, and oranges? Out of sight here, too, is a scarlet motor scooter with chrome trim.
Momentarily, my reason for being is to indulge myself with all things gallic. I have visions of my father leaning over a naked engine, taking each spark plug out of its socket and cleaning it, before returning it to spark anew. I reason that my plugs need to be cleaned and put in more jauntily, with beret would do it. So, I leaven them with Edmund White’s ‘The Flaneur – A stroll through the paradoxes of Paris’. I scatter my apartment with images from Cartier-Bresson. I stroll my courtyard, crushing lavender, inspecting olives, chuffing over newly sprouting fig twigs. I am cleansing the plugs of my senses.
In readiness ...
A member of the Theme Thursday community. A post in response to the prompt 'reason'.