These stories come from my journal that I kept while living in Paris. Those were some of the best days of my life.
1 mai 96 • 7:15 p.m. in Houston. 2:15 a.m. in Paris.
On the flight to Paris above New York City.
33,000 feet • -61degrees F • 3532 miles to Paris.
Seat 22K. Waiting for un vin de rouge.
Leaving.
We will always be leaving. Leaving the day. Leaving the house. Leaving the tip. Leaving our sunglasses. Leaving our loved ones. Leaving our lives. After leaving we come to something. Something exciting and new will happen.
We will learn how to leave and how to grow. We have no clue what it will be.
How interesting...right now I don’t know what word will come next. I don’t know what the person next to me will do next. I don’t know if the flight attendant is going to bring my vin rouge or not. He must have forgotten. It’s interesting that when I ordered that drink I thought I would get it and he thought he would get it for me, but alas after leaving he forgot. I guess the moral of the story is to not forget what you’ve left behind. Now I have to go to les toilettes.
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2/13/96 • In my room • 11:03 p.m.
It was a nice day today.
“I write because I want more than one life. I insist on a wider selection. It’s greed plain and simple when my characters join the circus. I’m joining the circus.” - Anne Tyler
Beneath this silver tipped brain - deep inside the ink - there is nothing. It’s an open pallet of black that spills out anything. The power that this pen has is greater than that of a president, a bully or a hammer. It can do anything. What comes from the brain goes straight to the ink. The ink carves adventure. It creates emotions. Builds the idea. Creates the dream. It can go anywhere and the brain goes with it along with friends.
Life is usually held by gravity. People live day-to-day on the same couch, watching the same shows, following the quickest route, and going to bed - only to repeat the day over and over and over. They don’t let a pen take them anywhere. A pen is just for the document. They don’t understand that, with what is included free with the pen, is ink. Ink that will take their bad day and make it at least interesting. Ink that will break the scratched record-like days that are stuck in one place, one moment. The ink will feed them and yes, they will grow.
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Leo Tolstoy caught the idea of the climax of his classic novel “Anna Karenina” from local gossip. He heard that his neighbor’s mistress threw herself under an onrushing train when the affair ended. Anna Karenina, whose adultery does not lead to the happiness she’d hoped for, decides to kill herself in the same way.
4 mai 96 • 1:50am
My 4th day in Europe, first day to SEE Paris.
Fascination will save. How can one destroy such an artistic masterpiece and miss out on the thing called life. They must stop and think. Think about what is happening when they think. Look what the brain isdoing and how it all works together in such synchronicity. In instants toes move, arms hug, legs jump. Think of what happens just to get your toes to move. Think of what knowledge is absorbed by your eyes. You see happiness, beauty, fear, balance, emotions, calculus, differences. Why do we itch? Taste? Bite our fingernails? Hurt? Why must we hurt? To learn. Don’t quit. We all should remember that we are responsible for our bodies. Just look what they can do. Laziness does not make the body better. It does not excel. Park at the first parking spot you find. Be oh so thankful you have two legs and walk. Park as far away as possible. These spots are not reserved for brand new cars. Park that dusty old Datsun out there and walk with those two legs that won’t give up unless you give up. Before you jump, look at what you can do with what you don’t want.
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28 aout 96 • 21h24
Clouds resting in the Czech Republic.
Check the mirror. Look at yourself and your possessions. You have so much. Clouds resting in the mountains of the Czech Republic to watch the sunset. I saw this on my way back to Paris from Prague and thought people need to stop and watch the sunset. They get caught up in making a buck, being on time, working till midnight at a job they detest, a gin and tonic every day at 5:30pm, sitting for hours watching mind numbing television. Think like those clouds in the Czech Republic. Rest on the side of a mountain and see what there is to embrace. Swimming from 3 in the afternoon to 7 at night, just after the sunsets and before the mosquitoes get ready for dinner. Be sure it’s August. Go down to a stream and create your own stream and kingdom. Build a sandcastle. Take at least three hours. You’re bored with life? The only way to get bored with life is to follow a routine that eats away your patience. That brings no smile. That brings no tear.
So...you’re bored. Here are a few ideas to eat up some time.
Work your ass off for a whole year then the following year go to a different place every day and watch the sunsets. 365 different places. 365 different sunsets. 365 different thoughts. (2 years). Read 156 books. That’s probably .000001% of the choices you have. Take a week for each book and soak in every word. Before you start reading take a year and ask a different person every other day a book they would recommend or their favorite book. That’s 182 1/2 books to choose from. Just think how much your mind will grow. (4 years). Learn seven languages. Take a year to study it and then live in it for two years after. Then go on to your next language and study it for a year and then live there for two years. Go back and live in your first language for a year and then your second language for a year and then start studying your third language. Live there for two years after a year of studying and then go back to your first language for a year, then your second, and then your third. Figure out the pattern? Know seven different languages. (48 years). Work on a Caribbean Island for a year. Live on a ski slope for a year. Live in the desert for a year. Live in a town with a population of less than 2,400 for a year. Live in New York City for a year. Live in the woods for a year. (6 years). Work as a bartender in New Orleans for a year. Work as a card dealer in Vegas for a year. Work as a flight attendant for a year. Work on a cruise line for a year. Work as a life guard for a year. Work at a basketball arena for a year. Work as a substitute teacher for a year. Work at a hotel front desk for a year. Work as a DJ for a year. Work as a film developer for a year. Work as a surf instructor for a year. Work as a waiter for a year. Work at a music store for a year. Work at Disneyland for a year. Work at a bookstore for a year. (15 years). Send $1 every week for a year to random people you don’t know in all 50 states and 2 to any other country. (1 year). Go to a different place of worship every week for a year. (1 year). Get married. Have kids. (77 years). Life is amazing. Don’t break yourself in the mirror.
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18h07 • 1 octobre 96
43 Friends at the Palais Royal.
A red umbrella. Beige coat. Green pants that are an exact match to the color of the chair. One pigeon. Now two. I can’t count the ones beneath him but I’d say around 37 or 42. He seems to have one favorite as he makes disgruntled faces at the others who try to perch upon his arm. They are like a pastime to him, it seems. One pigeon rests upon his beige shoes which match his beige socks which match his beige coat. It’s a perfect composition of color. The gray pigeons with their touch of green on the throat and the green pants/chair and trees. And the beige ground/coat/shoes/socks. He just opened his umbrella 2 times to play a little game with his pleasure. He gave a smirk as they fluttered in panic. Did they really believe their friend would harm them? He’s so content. I wonder how his 70 years of life have treated him? He’s trying to share the seed with the petit finches now. Does he have a wife? Kids? grandkids? A dog? He does have the magic touch. The power. The serenity to bring the timid finches up to his hand. About five are eating out of his hand as six flutter around waiting in line. Take a number. God, I wish I had my camera. Old man. Les jardins du Palais Royal. Pars, France. October 1st, 1996. I’m glad I don’t have bird seed. I’d feel bad taking away what could be the only smile in the monsieur’s life. I wonder if he’ll be back tomorrow. I will.
p.s. The man is walking away and, yes, his friends follow.
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11h09 • 27 september 96
Air Sings in Old Barcelona
The vines fall still. The stones hold their rough, rectangular form. The curves feel warm. A stick carries an elderly señora past the gate. The gentle breath of a flutist fills the arched hallways with a peaceful energy. The music is the only thing moving in this still life. The clock just called out 11 a.m. The chimes could not overpower the sounds of the flute. The flute has the power here. Besides the hourly chime, the sun, and the flute, time rests. A well needed rest for my world. To myself, this is only I and a mysterious harmony filling my senses. It does not speak my language but my ears understands what it says.
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...and a moment in life, back in the United States.
April 20, 1997 • 9:58 p.m. • It’s a Sunday.
Tears.
For the first time in my 25 years, 6 months, and 4 days, I saw my grandma - whom I call Mom - cry. My dad had told me about her crying lately but today when her legs would not act “normal” her tears did. She tried and tried with all of her might. I still remember that 2.5 seconds she was stationary in the air in the squat position above that emerald green chair. She froze like she had 245 lbs. on her back. Then, collapse – she gave up. Her hand to her eyes and the tears began to flow. She was beat. When she was 25 years, 6 months, and 4 days old, she could get out of a chair without a second of thought. Now, there is great thought and great sadness. It is a challenge which she cannot win. I am sad. This is not the Mom of just 5 years ago. Just 3 years ago. Just a year ago. Time goes on. Life goes on. We get old. We cry.
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