Writing tonight was like trying to burn wet firewood - slow to ignite and with a lot of smoke. I found several beginnings but lost the thread of thought after just an opening line. Despite the power of the "Mission Control" mug from Johnson Space Center, I am without direction. Perhaps you will forgive me the narrative of a story and suffer through my stream of consciousness.
As I sit and type, I am surrounded by night sounds: tree frogs (which sound like an electronic beep), the crackling of a dying fire, and the occasional hoot of an owl.
My typical place to write has been the dining table which is currently covered in oil cloth with imagines and words reminiscent of the 1950s: "Drive In", "Coffee", " and "Cafe." These table coverings are typical in French households.
For the last two days, the weather has been lovely, and we have been able to have lunch in the side garden. The French approach to the noon-time meal is far from "eat in front of your computer" with a main meal lasting two hours or longer.
The hour is late and I will be early to rise.
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