"Colette so loved the shades, contrasts, colors and sensations of the world"-F. Mayes

and so again, i have fallen in love. halfway through A Year in the World, Frances Mayes introduces Colette. Sean will occasionally refer to the "artistic connection" he has with particular guitarists, authors and artists. i've thought myself to understand what he means by "artistic connection", but only today do i realize there is a distinct difference between understanding and experiencing. today i am artistically connected to Sidonie Gabrielle Colette.

It is now clear to me why I adore Frances Mayes' prose; it is because she adores Colette's prose. The three of us, (in my most colorful dreams) are a sort of trinity born over 133 years.; with Colette of the past, Frances of the present and myself in the future....here to share with the world the hues of experience...to illustrate with vowels and consonants...our primary duty: to allow every person a glimpse of the mystery, magic, and colors existing in their prosaic moments.

In college, Frances Mayes was criticized by her department chair after choosing to study Colette for her oral exam. "What has she written of value?"was the cross-examination from her professors. In a way I am positive Colette would approve of, Frances defends the treasure that is Colette's prose:

"Soon Colette became my close friend. One of life's pleasures: a writer's books can intersect with your life and lead you to the next largest space you can occupy. Her writing catapulted me forward. Even now, each time I pick up one of her books , her perceptions and images continue to wake up my perceptions. Life drencehs her prose...Her story, compelling as it is, would not be enough to bind me to her. Story is not enough. She peels and sections and bites into experience like and orange...Her passion for roses, dogs, sunrise, and all the felt sensations of life runs through the molten alchemical process of selecting words. Her prose - immediate and spellbinding-lets me touch the hand of the writer herself."

Frances fantasizes of a friendship with Colette, my heart skips a beat, I want to come: " What would we talk about? Prose style? Publishing? No. I'd tell her about the pink hellbores I planted under the crape myrtles, how my whole California garden revolves around what deer won't eat. We'd talk about politics, dogs, the boredom of dogma, winter coats, flamenco."

I imagine I am there with Frances and Colette. The fact that Colette was born 111 years before me is nonsense. We eat wild strawberries, Colette shares the secrets of her roses, they tell me where to travel and that punctuation and sentence structure is meaningless, how to know good wine, what french pastries are mouthwatering, where to find cobblestone roads that never end, we try to fly. I read on and learn that Colette wrote on blue paper and covered her writing lamp with a sheet of it! "Those passing below at night would look up and know that Colette was writing."

I now own Colette's The Tender Shoot in which she observes men and women, children, the weather , the smells of the street, animals, the taste of food and the places where she once lived.

I sat with Sean today over a pot of mint tea and our stack of books; journals in our laps as to keep our words from smearing as drops of rains escaped from the feather grey sky. Wet bamboo and a mist rising from the brick occupied the air. I read The Tender shoot and felt the need to confess to him my infatuation. I repeated to him this passage: "In that odd state of convalescence which follows a tiring night journey, my eyes wandered slwoly round the courtyard. They came to rest on the rose-bush under my window, idly following every sway of it's branches. 'Roses already!' And white arum lilies. The wistaria's beginning to come out. And all those black and yellow pansies.' Further down I read of her preparations for a trip to the Meditteranean: "Consequently, at the end of March, I packed a good pound of periwinkle-blue paper in a suitcase." !!!

After a delightful afternoon with Sean, doing our what is now almost routine: reading , writing and tea drinking in the courtyard , antique perusing, beach sitting/pondering/ pipe-smoking/dreaming, I returned home to research my new friend Colette. I instantly acquired the knowledge of her birthday which is JANUARY 28TH, the very birthday of myself. Consequently, I rushed to the art store to stock up on paper the color of forget-me-nots.