Considering my usual mornings start around six am, and considering I only got to bed around five thirty, the time is out of joint today.
“We’ll take the more scenic road up to Aurillac, and come back by the highway,” she said. Scenic it was, both ways. Word to the wise: at two thirty am, the road from Aurillac to Rodez gives full value to the notions of winding and twisting. We kept repeating that the markings on the pavement and the glitter strips on the sharp turns made this a much, much better experience than the winding twisting roads from Figeac back through Cordes-sur-Ciel, and the heights in the wine country above Gaillac. True enough, save when large trucks loomed above us in their exits from one of the tight turns.*
We didn’t get to see the Théâtre de l’Unité’s production at the street festival because we were on a mission to deliver partitions for the parade segment of Les Plasticiens Volants‘ production of Little Nemo in Slumberland. We danced through the streets with the rest of the happy crowd. Skirted the grungier gatherings where Emergency services congregated around the snarly dogs and their doped-up humans. Best scene while skirting same: a skinny young man in dreadlocks whose guru must have said: Find the loudest, filthiest and rowdiest place you can. Gather your being into the lotus bud. Experience the silence within.(I couldn’t help thinking that, of all the extroverts around, he was the biggest show-off of them all. Too bad my camera had run out of juice by then.)
My friend accepted a personal invitation to a meeting today with a knight errant. She lied. She’s following Les Plasticiens to Sète for today’s scouting prior to tomorrow’s performance (low-lying branches and power lines: not recommended for street parades with towering inflatable characters.) I shared a high-five with a Masked Wrestler inviting me to wrestling cum drawing matches today, tomorrow and Saturday (I’ll have to miss it. At 8:45 pm at Aurillac’s Terrain de Sport de la Jordanne, should you happen to be in the area. No entrance fee. Look for the Sweatlodge Collective at site #20.)
(I’ll post all relevant photos, once the camera gets juiced up again.)
The title? Last seen, and so on. Where were we? Ah yes.
“Rindge? Never heard of the place,” she said.
* All right. Slightly off to our left, but you only find that out once the maneuver’s done with.