Yellow brick world

I look outside the window of the second floor of a restored pre-revolution (the French Revolution being a significant point of reference for the French)restored house at a barn. Green moss-which would be vibrant in a less diffuse light, but not too long after this rainfall-scattered on the clay roof tiles. yellow stone walls, made from the naturally yellow stone found in this part of Dordogne. A squash and leek-onion soup with cloves simmers downstairs, three sausages have probably made their way into the hot bath. The wonderous music of Third World Love, an Israeli Jazzist friend of Christian. Christian is the deep-voiced man who is hosting Stephanie and I in this quaint house in this quaint yellow hamlet with clay-tile roofs with rain dripping off everything this afternoon. A former Parisian chef. A photographer. A carpenter. A sculptor of wood, clay, plaster. One who feeds hay to a donkey couple. Wears "the patch" to attempt to destroy the habit that has given him his deep tenor voice. A practitioner of the old way of constructing, using environmentally friendly, pre-industrial materials with post-industrial electric drills and band saws and the first electric chainsaw I ever sawed before. We are building the second floor of his barn, hammer, nail and saw. The old black-wooded barn door juxtaposed with the yellow stone wall shoulder-and-heading it and the yellow gravel path which it stands above. The pale yellow-plastered inner walls. I saw a house down the private little street at the other end of the hamlet with this yellow plaster on the outside walls, parts of it degraded along the bottom of the wall shozing the yellow brick stone underneath, each stone a different size and shape. There is word Englishman living nearby. Master carpenter. Doesn`t speak a word of French except paté and rendezvous. I should meet this master, ask him to take me on, teach me something. Feels like it is time to eat lunch now. A warm soup for my cold hands. A link for you to see a few pictures of this placed tucked away in Dordogne, with many small twisting roads at night behind us. I look at the sky, no detail in it whatsoever. an almost white sky. Am I looking at it, or through it, or beyond it? Hanna, return for a moment to your York times and your art project and help me get my head around this sky I am peering at.

http://www.perigord.com/gite-lefalgueyret.htm

A tout allors,
Maurizio