where the writers are
Merle /Blackbird
merle.jpeg

Gosh, I love these slow northern dusks.  It's nine o'clock and it is just getting dark, and right on schedule the mysterious blackbirds are singing.  Maybe they are in the courtyard behind the hotel on the side street, I can see the top of a chestnut tree there, below all the steeply sloping zinc roofs, a corner I love, so I can understand that the blackbird may like to sing it too.

I walked over to the Centre Pompidou this afternoon.  Stopped in the Eglise St Merri, which had both its doors open into the street, and inside about a million origami birds hanging from the ceiling in the nave, and lots of people looking up at them with their mouths open.  They were each about the size of a seagull and painted all different colors.  A nice little lady came over and asked if I liked them.  Oh yes, I said, how did you get them up there?  She said she'd made a lot of them herself under the guidance of a Vietnamese friend.  And no, it wasn't any problem hanging them, someone had been up on the roof to do it.  And if I came back this weekend they were having the vernissage for a show of paintings by a Russian painter, Maxim Kantor, on the theme of Crossing the Red Sea.  One or two paintings were already in place and I loved them too.  

And since a friend had praised the Brancusi Atelier, after I'd wandered around the Museum of Modern Art, I wandered into it (it's right there on the square), having not been in there in maybe 20 years.  All changed--a new building by Renzo Piano, a reconstruction of Brancusi's own studio, with his works in situ, and even the loft where he slept.  Very moving, peaceful, somewhere I'll go back to.  It reminded me of the times I've circled around Giacometti's studio in the 14th and wished I could see in.

The blackbird has stopped singing, it is dark, I'm going to find a tree of my own and curl up.