I was
living in a tiny apartment in the attic of a church on Cours de la Liberté
during what would prove to be the hottest summer on record. The roof over
the attic was glass, so the heat that would build up all day was punishing
– like walking in the summer afternoon sun in Las Vegas. So I would lay
there, listening to The Clientele's The Violet Hour and A Fading Summer EP, and try to think "cooling" thoughts. I would
imagine the view of the church – located in an exquisite district right next to
the Rhône – from above, then swoop down, mentally gliding over the two rivers
and their many bridges. Then I would do variations of this process,
sometimes zooming out even further, looking over not just the church and
surrounding neighborhood, but the entire city, and other times zooming in close
to revisit tactile details of intricate walking routes from the church to the
city's overlook on Fourvière Hill. The sensation of old stone walls
against my fingertips, waxy green leaves under moonlight spilling over the
footpath down from Tour métallique de Fourvière, the immense wash of sound
swirling around Lyon Cathedral – a conjuring & ordering of a thousand details
to cast a spell of sleep.
C’était loin déjà le Missouri et je marchais là, été
plein, couleur mauve, j’avançais dans la lumière du soir et je me souviens avec
une extrême précision (moi qui ne me souviens de rien) de mes mains s’ouvrant
toutes seules comme actionnées par un levier, je me vois ouvert tout entier
comme une prune, dégoulinant, libre enfin : je suis tombé à terre dans
l’été, j’ai regardé la Saône, j’étais là.
