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.

life is terribly, entirely exciting. half of those words I got from the sidewalk by my apartment. but I haven't even told you, imaginary blogworld, about my new house, so this is difficult. here's what I'm going to do. I'm not going to edit pictures, because I really don't have the time to be doing even this and photoshop will suck my life away, but I'm going to rain down a smattering of photos from the past, what, two months? just a sampling, so then later I can procrastinate more intelligently with posts about the elections and my deepening thoughts about immigration and integration. or possibly just ennumerate the vastness of crazy fucking people I encounter day by day now that the heat is on in the city.
but here, first, a pictoral timeline:

I come back from Madrid. then, weeks later, I remember to take my camera with me one day.
here is dearest Abby turning nineteen, and being quite cute while she's at it:


then luckily, the next day I still had my camera in my bag when Tristan and I walked out of his building and into the Chinese New Year parade.
here is a dragon putting the moves on a motorcycle:


later that day came another photograph worth throwing off my already uneven timeline. children should definitely not see this, which is inconvenient since it's on full display by the Seine.
here is the strangest:


a couple days later Jason Webley came to Paris! twice! the second time he played his accordion with Tristan's head and he treasured the scarring.
here is Jason Webley in another nearly unlit room:


sometime after that everything changed. I found an amazing appartment in Montmartre, my parents came for a fantastic visit, spring came to stay for longer still, and I didn't take any pictures of anything (but I have been painting!).
here is where I live now:


later still came St Patrick's Day, which I celebrated by a trip to hear early music at the medevial museum and later by getting very drunk.
here is something in between:


christ, I don't know, this is getting to be a bit much. anyway, some days later into spring Paris was doing something fantastic and I noticed it.
here is the line where natural meets man-made beauty:


that same night I suddenly had friends, which was cool. all the way to the right is french whasshisname who intended to vote Sarkozy, to the left is lovely big-haired Coline I only met the once but who miraculously studied anthropology, then are adorable Miko with a guru great grandfather and in the polka dots is Gurutze, one of the coolest ever.
here is a sushi dinner:

after this come visits by Peter and Jake; vacations and more vacations; good things and so many good things--but all producing altogether to many photos to start in on right now. tomorrow and tomorrow!

Hidden Cities

"A sibyl, questioned about Marozia's fate, sad, 'I see two cities: one of the rat, one of the swallow.'
"This was the interpretation of the oracle: today Marozia is a city where all run through leaden passages like packs of rats who tear from one another's teeth the leftovers which fall from the teeth of the most voracious ones; but a new century is about to begin in which all the inhabitants of Marozia will fly like swallows in the summer sky, calling one another as in a game, showing off, their wings still, as they swoop, clearing the air of mosquitos and gnats.
" 'It is time for the century of the rat to end and the century of the swallow to begin,' the more determined said. In fact, already beneath the grim and petty rattish dominion, you could sense, among the less obvious people a pondering, the preparation of a swallowlike flight, heading for the transparent air with a deft flick of the tail, then tracing with their wings' blade the curve of an opening horizon.
"I have come back to Marozia after many years: for some time the sybil's prophecy is considered to have come true; the old century is dead and burried, the new is at its climax. The city has surely changed, and perhaps for the better. But the wings I have seen moving about are those of suspicious umbrella under which heavy eyelids are lowered; there are people who believe they are flying, but it is already an achievement if they can get off the ground flapping their batlike overcoats.
"It also happens that, if you move along Marozia's compact walls, when you least expect it, you see a crack open and a different city appear. Then, an instant later, it has already vanished. Perhaps everything lies in knowing what words to speak, what actions to perform, and in what order and rhythm; or else someone's gaze, answer, gesture is enough; it is enough for someone to do something for the sheer pleasure of doing it, and for his pleasure to become the pleasure of others: at that moment, all spaces change, all heights, distances; the city is transfigured, becomes crystalline, transparent as a dragonfly. But everything must happen as if by chance, without attaching too much importance to it, without insisting that you are performing a decisive operation, remembering clearly that any moment the old Maroziawill return and solder its ceiling of stone, cobwebs, and mold over all heads.
"Was the oracle mistaken? Not necessarily. I interpret it in this way: Marozia consists of two cities, the rat's and the swallow's; both change with time, but their relationship does not change; the second is the one about to free itself from the first."

from Invisible Cities, by Italo Calvino



I was sad to think that so many of my thoughts on Paris and this year would go unrecorded and very likely unremembered in my passive refusal to update this log, blog, clog consistently. but then, in rereading this wonderful book first introduced to me by my very first class at college, I breathed a sigh of relief and realization--Calvino's said it all for me, and quite often exactly the way I would have wanted to say it. it's a fine book, and far more meaningful to me after having experienced the idea of a city for myself.

but! I didn't post just so say, "read this book, 'cause lord knows I won't be providing any reading material here." this post is to revive my interest in this medium and hopefully inspire some itsy picture posts, at the very least. no, I'll tell all or something no lots! yes, I'll tell lots, and soon, but not now. not that anyone is reading this now, ha! that is a bonus of neglect...

l'air

suffocated with love. to gasp for breath--an inspiration of dream-scent. my eyes lid over with liquid to spare myself the loss of the moment. can one vision, one incidentless afternoon be everything you've ever seen or known or wanted?
the same pilgrimage from another approach almost brought me to my knees today. godless, even deathless as I am this close to 21. twenty-one. curving up the path alongside the lit-green hill, a tall holly bush shifting and whispering with the wind of the sun, I looked up and over and found myself in Cape Breton, climbing to draw eye-level with those irregular giants of stone and earth. people's voices played the part of distant shoal-bound waves and hungry gulls. the city stretched out blue to the horizon and for a moment I thought I saw a boat coming in.
have safe harbor in my heart, hope. I'll care for you as you do bouy my spirit and draw me out into strange waters. when worlds multiply, divide, and shimmer to and from existance before my eyes, how can I say I lack? if I lack it's only for breath. give me air again and again and I'll give you all I have, life.

city of love

Madrid!

Lispy love for six wonderful days. Yes, I forsookd my adopted nation for the sake of a wee week with Sophie in Madrid, which as it turns out is not nearly as drab or dreadful as the name would have you think. The buildings are bright, the weather is fine, and anywhere you go you can order a melted chocolate bar in a cup to drink! The city plan looks totally organic, but the individual mullets are so greased as to look synthetic. Speaking of mullets, I stayed with Sophie in her new home, which is also home to Jose, a flamenco guitar instructor/professional adorable skeezball and his giant puppydog, Timaron. Sophie and I did many things but not nearly enough to sate Sophie's spirit of hospitality. I, however, was well-sated, sedated, so happy to be with a dear friend and out of Paris for a bit. The Spanish smile, how about that? Anyway, the amazing thing about this post is that it will not feature even one picture of me eating.

It will, however, feature this Spanish man exercising his freedom of speech while biting his tongue.



And here is a "House Occupied by Women"...also loud, but pretty awesome.



Saturday night Sophie and I wanted to paint the town red, buuuut they only had blue paint so here you go. Anyway isn't this a wickedcool building?


Then I got hit by a car. Also this was in a Mexican bar that was terribly overpriced but just so cute that it lured us in twice (there were swings for bar stools!) Here I've just had my first ever mojito...finally I'm an American teenager.


This other day was super warm and wonderful, much like Sophie.


Here she transfigures her hands into a bird quite accidentally.


This picture did not capture the scene. Yet I post it anyway...


Cats!!!


Here I will take a curtsy and leave you be.

(please notice my new coat!)