The Strangest Thing
I know I promised posts. I spent all that time in Paris taking notes. Scribing in my notebook although my notes the first and second time were far more formed. These notes are fractured. I found myself having difficulty on the plane even figuring out how to organize them. Chronologically made some sense, but entirely. There were events that out of sequence, but seemed that they should be written of together for thematic reasons. I am still unsure. It is not often as a writer that I experience this kind of unsureness once I have begun a project. Who can say the cause?

And there is the tiredness since I returned. A lethargy. A desire to sleep. I am still on Paris time perhaps. Or my heart remains there, wanting to sleep.

He IMs me or emails me almost every day. I struggle through with babelfish and what little French I remember. Too bad my high school French teachers never taught us anything that should be included in a love letter. Taught us the words for marine mammals instead of how to say I miss you. I still remember the words for monkey and umbrella, but I don't know how to say I wish you were to take me to bed. And this was supposed to be the allure of the relationship. That I wasn't fluent. That I didn't have the words to express myself nor could I understand him more than 20% of the time. That old gypsy curse. May you get what you want. For a while, of course.

I have so much to do. So many posts to write before the semester begins and yet I find myself not wanting to write about Paris in a way. But I will. Because more than anything I am a writer. Not because I have a choice, but because at the bottom of everything it's who I am. I wouldn't know who I was without it.

But you'll have to be a bit patient. Wait until I finally wake up and return to American life.

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