finding and foundering

Once I was lost in my freedom. Walking the streets so many days alone. Walking home so many nights, alone again. Every afternoon was mine to spend freely. I could sit in a cafe and read any book at all until the sun went down and dinner called me back along that already old road.

If it rained I could stop and draw the raindrops. Equally I could walk, and get wet. I had no one to impress, nowhere to be, everything to see. If only I could have shed my central nervous system! Left my brain on a bench somewhere. I could have drifted on as joyful and inconspicuous as a plastic bag on the breeze.


Instead I remained this whole being, being human. I found or maybe I made this space for myself. I found the people who would sit across from me in the cafes, who would want to know which book I read, who would care that I made it home okay at night. I found a home more fully mine and now I'm preparing to leave it.

On the metro these days I am always pressed for time. I am happy as I hurry but a part of me yearns back, turns always back. I miss the days when I could have sat that seat and watched the parade of faces and footwear until bored, even recalling that boredom was a constant menace which threatened to drain all clarity and charm from my life.


I think a lot about boredom these days, but it's all in theoretical. I think about a lot of things and I don't stop to worry about conclusions. Some crazy idea has settled on me, like maybe there really is time for everything. Even as I put off the overdue, even as the sky and rain and buildings and days crash in on me. Even knowing that moments of life end and never come again, fear and disappointment leave me some breathing distance.

So I breathe, and try to lay away sure memory of each scent to reach my nostrils. Paris stinks in the afternoon and sweetens of fresh bread and fresh breeze in the morning. Paris is my home but I won't even know what that means until I'm gone.

holy souly, this is great!

special report

this might be procrastination, but it's for the great cause of something incredibly strange. a door somewhere inside of me just got ripped off it's hinges, and you'll soon find out why that is the most appropriate image.

last night I was in the library all day until nearly eleven at night. my computer is stone dead and it was too late to even see a movie by myself so I just went straight home. once in my apartment I puttered around, shaved my legs, listened to French socialists get worked up on the radio, wrote in English on my French typewriter. then I went to sleep. nowhere throughout my day did I talk to anyone in America, nor did I consult an American news source.

this morning I woke up, went back to sleep. I did that about eight more times then forced myself into the shower. some absurd amount of time later I left my apartment, only to find that the day had warmed considerably since I first leaned out the window in the morning. I went back inside, made a slight change to my outfit, then remembered to tear off the next entry in my Onion calendar. it was a hilarious set of warnings from the National Weather Whatever on what to do in the case of a...tornado. but before I could read through and appreciate the suggestions (such as, "point and shout 'tornado!' then run like hell"), I was blinded by a very visual flashback to a dream I had last night.

the dream was unrelated, unremarkable, mostly peaceful or maybe middlingly boring. then, driving in a car, I looked out the side window and saw something I've never seen with my own eyes. in a very yellow and entirely eerie landscape a tall tornado was rampaging. the tornado was nearly pink in contrast or maybe green from time to time and faster than anything that size could possibly be. it was terrifying and terrifically, physically exciting. the memory came through so sharp I believe because of my physical response to the image while I slept. I remember reacting violently...in fact I'm fairly sure I pointed at it with all force, then screamed "TORNADO!"

I shook my head and wondered at the recollection, then read the Onion's advice and left my house chuckling, wondering still. what was that dream?

once on the street I headed toward the Marie to watch French people putting democracy in action, but it was not as action-packed as I'd imagined watching some people in a queue. I bought something in a bakery called a "baguelle" which resembled very closely a bagel but turned out to have almost nothing to do with a bagel as soon as I tore into it. disappointed, dreading a day devoted entirely to work, I walked to the metro and was momentarily cheered by the sight Annie Sawyer walking in the opposite direction. I thought about stopping the girl to ask her which was her favorite park in Paris, and somewhere in all of this I forgot entirely about the dream.

later I remember and think: it must have really happened. it couldn't be a dream so vivid, so seemingly disconnected from my own subconscious. so I type "tornado" into actualities.google.fr but all it gives me is some shite about a plane crash or a vacuum cleaner.

Now I've been "working" and giving myself a cramp in my ass for hours. I keep refreshing LeMonde.fr hoping they'll tell my the estimated election results, but I guess it's not the custom. I think, "I know someone who loves giving results regardless of whether or not they're official or even accurate!" so I go to CNN.com. but what should I find in place of any mention of French politics? a smushed house and CNN's request that I "watch homes turned into piles of bricks and splintered wood." I'd take the time to rave about SPECIAL REPORT: TORNADOS, since it is absurd enough to delight by itself, but I'm too busy figuring out how I can get my own 900 number.

conclusion: either the collective unconscious is real, or I'M A FREAKING PSYCHIC.