Like the various textures of the passage up to the signal tower yesterday—rocky and sharp, muddy, rooty-uneven, loose, concrete—the passing of time seems to vary in its registers, as in:
Me, in Quillan for three days.
The French-speaking anglo I met in the Lavaria who lives there. Her English crackled to life as we tried to work out how to get the dryer going.
The locals, who have always been there, including the legendary “washerwoman of Quillan” who, according to an interpretive sign along the Aude, used to anchor and sloped washboard on shore and beat their laundry to cleanliness, laying it out to dry on the lavender scrubland.
Stone, used first for the chateaus and towers and castles, later for houses and bridges and tourist backgrounds.
Hillsides bombed in the quarries, changing land.
What used to be cars, crushed on a flatbed outside Quillan.
The Tour de France through any village cut open at both ends by its highway.
“Nomads” banned from overnight stops along the river in Couizo.
How long the river takes to gorge.
Seasons, as noted by the guy in Quillan oiling the blades of his roto-tiller.
The wound on my head (a scrape yesterday).
Bank machine: “please wait, your money is going to come out.”
The schoolkids kicking a ball for however long they’ll stay in their village.
That moon again, the one was saw over the Caribbean, debating its fullness, on the beach of Puerto Moreles.