I had a bialy with low-fat
cream cheese and an iced coffee
and a grilled chicken sandwich
and a small salad and a Coke
and an iced tea and some
nuts and Cheese Nips and two Molsons
and half a charred salmon,
a dozen steamers and three more Molsons.


I had an English muffin and
coffee and some corn flakes
and a fish fillet sandwich
with chips and iced tea
and two Molsons, a Saranac
in there somewhere, a Labatt's
and a grilled chicken sandwich, and later,
a single malt scotch.


I had a cup of fruit,
coffee, two small
muffins and a tomato juice,
a Killian's Red and a Molson
with sliced turkey
on a Kaiser roll, chips,
and then a Labatt's,
two, bread rounds, pâté,
a fillet of beef,
smoked chicken salad
and a kind of fusilli
that I liked, with olives.
A Corona and one
adverb of resignation—
or is it concession?—


I had coffee and
shredded wheat and fruit,
an apple turnover and a
half a bagel with cream
cheese and grapefruit
juice, a Killian's Red, half a
burger, cole slaw and grilled
tuna, a pickle, a pepper,
a slice of watermelon,
a Molson Ale, a Davidson's
India Pale (local, Glens Falls) and
a share of the chicken chili nacho
appetizer, a Ceasar's salad with
Gulf shrimp and one notion
of want, nibbled;
a Jameson back in the room.


I had coffee in the
room, a muffin from
Dave's, a turkey
sandwich in the van,
three beers at the track,
clam chowder (with reflected cloud),
an iced coffee, another
on the road,
sushi take out,
La Fin du Monde at home, a Molson,
and a half measure of quiet.


Black coffee at 5 a.m. and orange
sections, a spray of city
horns in the dark, a
Molson, turkey on a roll,
coleslaw and a pickle
and another Molson and
two auxiliary verbs, were and
might, and a crab cake
and a green salad and
two Czech beers, Lobvo,
I think, and a cup of coffee,
and an in-flight snack,
a Stella Artois, two, and
coffee and a fruit cup
and a muffin and a nut roll
and one subordinate


I had the ground, finally,
and some coffee
and a Guinness and a
salmon salad
on a baguette with cucumber
and tomato, chips, and Marcel
Broodthaers's "Casserole and Closed Mussels"
at the Tate Modern,
a Young's Ordinary Bitter, before
a windlass of jet lag drew it all up
out of me in a Richmond loo, all but for the mussels.
A mug of Earl Grey
to begin again.


I had an orange
juice and black coffee
and brown bread with
marmalade, half a banana,
a Coca-Cola, a bite of
chicken sausage, a pint
of Beck's and a ham and cheese
sandwich and a Heineken,
a Holsten Pilsner, some
hummus, a potato
soup and a Moretti's,
a slice of pizza and
a crab and papaya
salad, gelato and
espresso, one call home,
a fainting regret and
a finger of single
malt scotch.


I never went from
boy to man. I ran
along the Thames, was stranded by the tide,
had coffee and brown
bread and marmalade,
a Braeburn apple,
and a cup of tea, a
bottle of Beck's, a
mature cheddar salad
sandwich and a
Boddington's Bitter and
another adverb of
concession, however,
and a thought about the
various models of my youth.
Rocket and parmesan salad
and baked red snapper
and glasses of Côte Tariquet,
three, and a dessert
of traditional trifle
and a port wine and
a glass of Beck's at
the Roebuck and a
Wild Grouse taken with
a twist of irregular verbs—
speak, speed, spell, spend, spill
and a crowning
subordinate conjunction—
as soon as.

I shunned shall in
favor of will and had
tea and toast and then
coffee and juice; I dragged
to the post
and wrote a note home,
happy that my eldest son
might settle, and had a
frothy English coffee and
everyone else seemed taken ill.
        By swings and roundabouts
had a pint of Carling
and a bag of crisps
in the Gatwick Dickens, and
shrugged off a harmony
of tenses from the crew.
I had a chicken salad
bloomer, the rest of
my crisps and a Coke
with lemon and ice from
the flight attendant,
Helen Wright, and ground again.
I had a sweet
"bon soir"
from a late-night Lisette
with an Opel, ma voiture, awaiting,
and later, a Kronenbourg
line called 1664
("seize cent soixante-quatre," poor)
and cold chicken, green salad,
grapes and a delicious
camembert, courtesy
of friends.

Août 26

30140 ANDUZE
TEL: 04 66 61 91 83

6OEUFS MOYEN                                         8.66F
PISTACH CASI                                           20.03F
CONF CO  370G                                        11.87F
6OEUFS MOYEN                                        8.66F
TUILES PIZZA                                            6.82F
P H 6 RLX                                                   15.28F
BIERE BLONDE                                         28.93F
BIER.DELIRU                                             45.27F
                3 x 15.09F
LIQUIDES 19.60 %                                     28.00F
CONTREX 6XIL                                          17.38F
FRUITS/LEGUMES 5.50%                        13.80F
FRUITS/LEGUMES 5.50 %                       11.40F
MOUCHOIR CO                                          9.12F
SPAGHETTI                                                  7.67F
YA.NATUREX4                                             6.56F
CHEVRE 2000                                             14.69F
CAMEMB.CASIN                                       11.41F
LIQUIDES 19.60 %                                     28.00F

=TOTAL                (20)                                294.45F=

=TOTAL EURO                                               44.89=
(1 EURO = 6.559570 Francs)

ESPECES                           (FRF)                 294.45
MONTANT EURO                                        44.89

001/ 1 /26/08/2001/10:35:18
Numero de Ticket : 009634

probably my favorite works
of Marcel's are the
mussel shell pieces, like the
ones where the shells heap
up beyond the confines
of their cooking pots and
the lids sit on top. Mussel shells
are not a common material
in America.

"Thus the pieces
stand in gegensatz
zu diem 'internationalen
stil' der meisten Pop-,
Minimal- und Konzept-
Kunstwerke. I'm glad of
that. Marcel has written
poems about mussels
revealing the kind of
complex symbologies
he imbues them with,
but in these works they
can simply be seen as
a material of which there
is 'too much' of," writes Mike Kelley.

Août 27

À six heures,
the sprinkler starts,
out of the dead, still
silence of a countryside
wick, wick, wick, wick, wick, wick,
accompanied by the low
bass hum of the pump
beneath the house. The sky,
she brightens.
L'oiseau. Le coq. It's
6:30 now in Langue d'Oc,
a region named for a language,
Occitain, once spoken by the troubadours.

I have black coffee
and croissants, still
warm, from Monoblet,
a small mountain town, all limestone
and tawny faces. When
will I be
what I've become? Ham,
bleu cheese, baguette,
Leffe Blonde and straw-
berries. Un
Blanche de Bruge,
deux, in Uzes, and
one pang of regret: I pass on
"La petite peinture" box, complete
with tiny easel, straight edge,
compass, affixed
palette and booklet of
sample sketches and
instructions in French
for mixing colors—at 650 francs
I think it too much at an antique
shop. A misstep.

Storm coming and
energies seem to gather toward
the present, longer than
the little "now" or even the longer
"maintenant," the kind
of present that is a presence,
a weather, a condition.
What kind of present lasts
forever? Je ne sais pas mois

                     I had
Cuisse de Canard, confit aux
Cèpes et Filet de Merou, sauce
aux crevettes et un Kronenbourg, deux,
et cognac et sorbet citron.
Hail falls, fell; clear,
cleared. Jameson on
a terrace, the moon—
à minuit—half, and
yellow. Bonne nuit.
Août 30

At dawn, a dream.
I am signing the guestbook
at a friend's art show
and someone else has
written, "I didn't get
the sushi piece at all
and something-something-something
doesn't rate as art."
I notice as I sign my name
that I've added
an adverbial suffix to mon prénom
Michael become Michaelly—and figure,
well, that's the standard
for a dream.
        Off to Nîmes today,
to Carré d'Art.

Sir Norman Foster's
musée in the old city of Nîmes
is stunning—glass
and steel, full of sky and light,
drinking in the amazingly preserved Roman temple
from about 5 A.D. across the street
and framing it; and the current show,
a collaboration
between Bruno Carbonnet and
Christophe Cuzin,
plays with the notion of
houses, flowers,
skies and windows
["contre-plaqué, placoplâtre,
verre et acrylique"].
Lunch (mussels) in a courtyard after, but
is Michaelly really Mike Kelley?
        Skipping dinner ce soir.

As the sun ducks behind
a cloud to the west, the
air cools a few degrees, you
can feel it, and a wind,
slowly, insistently, fills
these trees, holm-oaks and
mulberries, and the grasses—
wild thyme, lavender, rock rose and rice straw—

Août 31

I dream you are in
Albany, with your father,
who is not well. There
is a lot of press around.
You are staying with
a friend, perhaps
my cousin Danny—
or now you maybe know his wife, Eileen,
or someone else I vaguely know. You say
bitterly that we will be going there
a lot, won't we. There is
a general pronomial confusion
throughout the night.

In some morning
the square window to
our sleeping room is pure silver,
and the air slinks in,
cool and shy and silent,
a lover without a tongue.

"Les Vitraux"
L'art due XXeme siècle a donné à notre église un certain climat, privilégiant la lumière, la couleur plus que la forme. Les pierres vénérables prennent des tons d'une richesse inouie d'ors, de rubis, de lapiz lazzuli. Claude Viallat le créateur, a très bien traduit dans son oeuvre la clarté mouvante du soleil. Bernard Dhonneur, maître verrier, a utilisé une technique nouvelle: les vitraux sont réalisés en verre soufflé à la bouche. Les verres sont colorés au moment de la fusion avec un ajout d'une couche d'émail coloré sur un support blanc, après une étude en atelier, en étroite collaboration avec Claude Vialllat.
Claude Viallat est né en 1936 à Nîmes. Lors de ses études, il a découvert Matisse, l'abstraction américaine, et a développé un art abstrait critiquant le statur traditonnel du tableau. En 1966 il inaugure durant l'été tout son travail à venir: avec les premières toiles libres sans châssis, il adopte une forme, "trouvée" par accident, rappelant un haricot, qui deviendra emblématique de son art. Depuis, cette empreinte caractéristique, ni géométrique, ni organique, est répétée a l'identique sur toute la surface de ses oeuvres. Sa recherche sur les supports l'amène à travailler sur des bâches, souvent de grand format, ou toute autre texture, de préférence usagée et réputée non picturale (parasols ou stores, sacs de jute, habits…). Il en déconstruit alors l'espace par l'emploi répété et systématique de cette forme, en jouant de la polychromie, des coutures, de la complexité de la découpe, et des motifs trouvés sur ces supports variés. En 1993 il obtient le Grand Prix nationale de peinture.
Pour l'église Notre-Dame-des-Sablons, clasée monument historique, Claude Viallat a conçu 31 vitraux, repartis en rosace et fenêtres. Ils sont réalisés par le maître verrier Bernard Dhonneur, ils comportent plusiers couleurs dans l'epaisseur, leurs formes êtant obtenues par gravure à l'acide et l'ensemble relié par des résines acoustiques. L'emploi de grands volumes avec des nuances dans les couleurs et la matière a permis de serrer au plus près la pensée de l'artiste.
Lake George—London—Langue d'Oc