Through Jean Rhys I am finding a way to write about prisons, and escape. The prisons we find ourselves in, and prisons of our own making.
On the Métro, I look at the signs listing the correspondances that connect to other lines, other stations. Correspondances seems a good way to describe it, and to introduce my section of notes on the books I read, or films and photographs that correspond to my own writing in some way, that correlate with my interests. I am thinking about meeting points, the points of connection to other lines, other destinations.
I knew then that the streets had already started to seep under my skin. It is something to do with motion, and the repeated retracing of steps. In the same way I keep returning to Rhys, and to the way she has infiltrated into my own experience.
Old Paris leaves its clues everywhere, like the way the old street names remain in some places, only crossed out.
I am thinking of a photograph on a beach somewhere on that trip to Wales. Dark clouds and grey sea. There is synchronicity in the image; our faces are together, touching in the half light. When photographs were still like slips of chance on the paper. Thinking about being outside as night fell in the mountains, sharing a bottle of wine; jubilant in the almost total darkness, with no lights to guide us home.