Celine gave me good hash.
It's been nice to remember my relationship with drugs. It's been nice to roll a joint again. I have fond memories of this. I have skills. It's why I dropped out of college. I discovered that I had other talents - not just for debating Kant, analyzing the diverse voices in a work by Sherman Alexie, or writing incredibly descriptive essays for English class -- for an assistant professor who invited Gordon Gano, from the Violent Femmes, because his dad was their lawyer. I had other talents, too, though. Rolling joints, getting high, fucking, and rockin' out at punk rock shows. Not that those, in and of themselves, say something - but they do point to a certain release and re-evaluation of my abilities. All of these activities brought out something more deep in me. Revealed new parts of myself to my eyes.
I remember sometimes losing my grip on the roach holder. Or, nights where everyone took turns rolling a joint - and, would compare techniques. Filterless. Dan, with the redhaired afro, who listed to Pavement all day long, made pizzas all night, and was so riddled with shyness that he barely spoke a word. The Teller of Penn. He'd sometimes roll two papers together and make us all high for the night. There'd be boys and girls who'd come and go. Taylor, the jock-ish kid who embodied "tall, dark, and handsome." Not too wise, but smart enough. Not as many girls came through the mix. But when they did, those boys fell so hard in love.
We never talked much about that though. We'd talk about scoring, pooling our cash, meeting the kid down at the Jim Carroll show at The Whole (or insert your choice: Scooby Don't, The Strike, J Church, Dillinger Four, Avail, Man Afraid, Propagandhi, Tribe 8). Or, someone would collect, and then all of a sudden between morning classes and your afternoon lab, Dan or Eric or Shane would show up with a big bag of grass. We talked about how to do this, and we talked about doing it, with dry gutter weed, or sticky sweet dope, picking the seeds out, and gazing in awe at how hairy it was, glistening under the one lamp in the room, the individual scent of each bag, or the familiar smell of the same batch in town, how the body would buzz or zone or hunger or fuck. We, also, talked about musical notes, we turned up the music real loud and stuffed a towel under the door, and after a while, we started getting up. Inevitably, we would end up in a slow, shoulder-hunch slinky line to the doors of the dorm. There was always one kid who'd wandered around "the other day" and found this "fucking cool ass spot." Sometimes we jumped fences. Sometimes we hid in shadows. Sometimes we got caught - and were lucky they had a girl with them.
I could never roll a perfect joint. They always looked like a snake had eaten an elephant. Or a hat.
This summer, Mr FD reminded me about this. He liked joints. Ones with tobacco and weed mixed. I could remember this from doing it in Spain. It's a nice high, where instead of the brain turning to trails of lights and feeling unable to move, it feels capable and alert, yet overwhelmingly mellow. I learned how to roll, man, did I learn. Filter, long Rizlas that I wasn't familiar with, loosening the tobacco in a small dish, de-steming the grass, mixing the two into a once-in-a-while perfect cone. We'd listen to music, too. He had the tall speakers, and he'd move the ottoman to the center point of listening, I'd sit and sometimes just rock out - Aidonia from "Jamaica's Most Wanted Mixtape," Baden Powell, Antipop Consortium, Gnarls Barkley, Reverend Charlie Jackson, Ann Peebles, and then old familiars from the college days, Praxis and Parliament.
So, now, I'm rolling my own tonight. Re-learning my way around hash is fun. Celine's 24-year-old roommmate (who sports a 7 o'clock shadow, spiky hair, and used to work for Quicksilver) scored some. Apparently hash is what you smoke when there is no grass around town. It was funny to have drinks with Celine this past weekend and watch four guys his age get high and doll up for going out clubbing.
Interesting. She said a few things while we watched some UK humor flicks. Things like, I'd "never let her before." To my comment that we should have spent more time together hanging out during school. Things like, "Are you comfortable? You're leaning on your hand. You can sit back if you wanna." I found them just friendly gestures at the time. Hm.. I guess I did kiss her and fondle her tits the other night.
So, now, I'm sitting outside on the balcony terrace, it's night cold, and the Eiffel Tower light sends out its beacon like the lighthouse. The stars are out, hazily winking through the light clouds. I can barely differentiate the clouds from the sky but for a faint hint of grey contrasting to a darker dark blue. Yes, one could say, a midnight blue.
And then an interesting thought. There might be nothing that can be done about the past, but the future you can change.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
finished
I have just finished the saving the entire history of every CDOA. I now saved every motherfucking entry I have written.
Now, comes the task of re-reading and sorting them into something that makes sense. Short stories - with photos where available. Poetry - the good, the bad, and the worse. Essays - on politics, current affairs, past memories. Longer stories - of love, of lovers, of ghosts, of dead people.
I've gone as far back as 2001.
That's a lot of fucking words.
Now, comes the task of re-reading and sorting them into something that makes sense. Short stories - with photos where available. Poetry - the good, the bad, and the worse. Essays - on politics, current affairs, past memories. Longer stories - of love, of lovers, of ghosts, of dead people.
I've gone as far back as 2001.
That's a lot of fucking words.
If by, you mean
Thursday, August 29, 2002
life is so beautiful some days
when you find the perfect quotes:
"Drink you under the table? I believe I'll drink myself under the hostess!" .. unknown
"If you mean whiskey, the devil's brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean that evil drink that topples Christian men and women from the pinnacles of righteous and gracious living into the bottomless pits of degradation, shame, despair, helplessness, and hopelessness, then, my friend, I am opposed to it with every fiber of my being.
"However, if by whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the elixir of life, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer, the stimulating sip that puts a little spring in the step of an elderly gentleman on a frosty morning; if you mean that drink that enables man to magnify his joy, and to forget life's great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrow; if you mean that drink the sale of which pours into Texas treasuries untold millions of dollars each year, that provides tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitifully aged and infirm, to build the finest highways, hospitals, universities, and community colleges in this nation, then my friend, I am absolutely, unequivocally in favor of it. This is my position, and as always, I refuse to be compromised on matters of principle." ... anon
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Today:
"Anon" has a name and immortality.
"In political discourse, if-by-whiskey is a relativist fallacy where the response to a question is contingent on the questioner's opinions and use of words with strong positive or negative connotations (e.g., terrorist as negative and freedom fighter as positive). An if-by-whiskey argument implemented through doublespeak appears to affirm both sides of an issue, and agrees with whichever side the listener supports, in effect, taking a position without taking a position." (wiki)
"Anon" is actually Noah S. "Soggy" Sweat, Jr., a young lawmaker from the U.S. state of Mississippi.
Columnist William Safire popularized the term in his column in The New York Times:
IF BY WHISKY
THE GREAT POLITICAL straddle exemplified by the if-by-whisky speech was attributed here to Gov. Fuller Warren of Florida in the 1950's [incorrect attribution]. An earlier and richer formulation was submitted by Norman L. Simpson of Syracuse, who found an undated and unattributed clipping in his family archives; he dates it to the 1920's, during discussions of the repeal of the Volstead Act prohibiting the sale of liquor:
"[insert the above quote by 'anon']"
The if-by-whisky technique is still in active use. Asked by Jonathan Alter of Newsweek if he was not too sensitive to criticism, Gov. Mario M. Cuomo of New York replied:
"If by thin-skinned you mean very, very quick to respond -- that's what I've done for a lifetime. I'd been a lawyer for more than 20 years. You can't let the comment from the witness pass.
"If [ by thin-skinned ] you're talking about being personally sensitive to criticism, that's a lot of [ expletive ] ."
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
The other two Safire columns on that page are awesomeness. Jungle becomes Rain-forest.
life is so beautiful some days
when you find the perfect quotes:
"Drink you under the table? I believe I'll drink myself under the hostess!" .. unknown
"If you mean whiskey, the devil's brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean that evil drink that topples Christian men and women from the pinnacles of righteous and gracious living into the bottomless pits of degradation, shame, despair, helplessness, and hopelessness, then, my friend, I am opposed to it with every fiber of my being.
"However, if by whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the elixir of life, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer, the stimulating sip that puts a little spring in the step of an elderly gentleman on a frosty morning; if you mean that drink that enables man to magnify his joy, and to forget life's great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrow; if you mean that drink the sale of which pours into Texas treasuries untold millions of dollars each year, that provides tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitifully aged and infirm, to build the finest highways, hospitals, universities, and community colleges in this nation, then my friend, I am absolutely, unequivocally in favor of it. This is my position, and as always, I refuse to be compromised on matters of principle." ... anon
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
Today:
"Anon" has a name and immortality.
"In political discourse, if-by-whiskey is a relativist fallacy where the response to a question is contingent on the questioner's opinions and use of words with strong positive or negative connotations (e.g., terrorist as negative and freedom fighter as positive). An if-by-whiskey argument implemented through doublespeak appears to affirm both sides of an issue, and agrees with whichever side the listener supports, in effect, taking a position without taking a position." (wiki)
"Anon" is actually Noah S. "Soggy" Sweat, Jr., a young lawmaker from the U.S. state of Mississippi.
Columnist William Safire popularized the term in his column in The New York Times:
IF BY WHISKY
THE GREAT POLITICAL straddle exemplified by the if-by-whisky speech was attributed here to Gov. Fuller Warren of Florida in the 1950's [incorrect attribution]. An earlier and richer formulation was submitted by Norman L. Simpson of Syracuse, who found an undated and unattributed clipping in his family archives; he dates it to the 1920's, during discussions of the repeal of the Volstead Act prohibiting the sale of liquor:
"[insert the above quote by 'anon']"
The if-by-whisky technique is still in active use. Asked by Jonathan Alter of Newsweek if he was not too sensitive to criticism, Gov. Mario M. Cuomo of New York replied:
"If by thin-skinned you mean very, very quick to respond -- that's what I've done for a lifetime. I'd been a lawyer for more than 20 years. You can't let the comment from the witness pass.
"If [ by thin-skinned ] you're talking about being personally sensitive to criticism, that's a lot of [ expletive ] ."
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
The other two Safire columns on that page are awesomeness. Jungle becomes Rain-forest.
Friday, October 16, 2009
October
2003
looking back is still the same:
"i'm tired, but it's also october.
i tried to look up my old blog's october archives but i couldn't get 'em.
october is the worst month.
yes, it's the most beautiful.
yes, i love tossing ideas around for halloween costumes and party plans. (although of late i'm always a catholic school girl.)
but it's also:
anniversary of date rape
anniversary of mike's suicide
anniversary of laura's car crash
anniversary of the commencement of my relations with "the old man"
anniversary of my first girl kiss
anniversary of nostalgic, homesick feelings in spain
anniversary of josh and his preggers ex-girlfriend
anniversary of getting back in dating saddle only to choose kink over the good boy
anniversary of lori's tragic death"
i hate october.
i turn in.
hiberation has a unique meaning for me.
introspection into the deep dark dank corners of my thoughts.
2005
my october is over.
pumpkins were carved again. the car battery died up on the hill again. the stars came out again. i said no again. he said yes. i rolled my eyes to the side and closed them again. we lived at dead end alley again. mike died again. laura suffered a car crash again. and, again, lori, the old man, spain, broken hearts. all over again. covered in ripples of james's sadness.
it is the most melancholy of seasons. the beautifully quiet and solemnly sad month of pumpkins, candles, witches, and ghosts.
looking back is still the same:
"i'm tired, but it's also october.
i tried to look up my old blog's october archives but i couldn't get 'em.
october is the worst month.
yes, it's the most beautiful.
yes, i love tossing ideas around for halloween costumes and party plans. (although of late i'm always a catholic school girl.)
but it's also:
anniversary of date rape
anniversary of mike's suicide
anniversary of laura's car crash
anniversary of the commencement of my relations with "the old man"
anniversary of my first girl kiss
anniversary of nostalgic, homesick feelings in spain
anniversary of josh and his preggers ex-girlfriend
anniversary of getting back in dating saddle only to choose kink over the good boy
anniversary of lori's tragic death"
i hate october.
i turn in.
hiberation has a unique meaning for me.
introspection into the deep dark dank corners of my thoughts.
2005
my october is over.
pumpkins were carved again. the car battery died up on the hill again. the stars came out again. i said no again. he said yes. i rolled my eyes to the side and closed them again. we lived at dead end alley again. mike died again. laura suffered a car crash again. and, again, lori, the old man, spain, broken hearts. all over again. covered in ripples of james's sadness.
it is the most melancholy of seasons. the beautifully quiet and solemnly sad month of pumpkins, candles, witches, and ghosts.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
the footsteps down the hall
There were certain sounds, certain echoes, certain resonance to them.
When dad came to us every three years or so and explained that we'd be moving again.
The military life. People always ask if I liked moving all the time, liked living all over the world. Well, there was nothing to which to compare. I knew no different. And every few years, there he would come. I don't recall my mother telling us. I think she was left to the packing detail, while he often went ahead to establish something -- his work, our lives, a pattern?
It's the same, only different now.
I thought I'd love travelling, moving, carrying my life in a few suitcases and boxes. And, I do. I know very well - as much as my family knows I know, and joke with me that we'll grow annoyed with each other after a couple of months. I'm bred independent. I have no gut instinct for marriage, the house, the picket fence, the 2.5 children, the mortgage, the small city.
But this move. This change. Well, it comes with so much more to it, of course. I wouldn't be packing if my dad weren't sick. But what would I be doing? Who would I be now? We'll never answer this because of how things go now. Destiny? Karma? As it is. And this move, well, it's fucking hard. Hard with a capital H. Am I too old to live on my own without a family to sustain? Am I too tender to be so far?
Tonight, my father encouraged me in applying for certain jobs. All jobs. Anywhere. With travel as it is and internet, why not? But then, why didn't they visit me? Why did they never make it over here? Why did they not come for my graduation? They are building a last house, a house of self-sustaining proportion, of solar and water heat, of environmental friendliness. That could be the reason, although rumor has it that my mother wasn't interested in travelling.
She and I are too alike. We suffer anxiety. We suffer our go-go dancer tendancies. We adore newness but hate making it happen. I am more like my mother than I or she ever intended. I doubt she knows this, but I guess she has hints. After all, we fought like enemies for so long that I think she realized she had been cursed with herself re-born.
So now.
They are my footsteps. My decision to move. My destiny in making.
I don't think I've cried so much as an adult. I almost worry that I have early menopause. I see certain posturing of my parents on Skype and start to stop myself from crying. Yes, I know I'm delayed in development, in growing up, and it's only now, finally, that I realize the importance of family.
But ... well, there is such beauty in freedom, Paris, living.
Ugh. I'm too tired to finish this.
But it's why I find it hard to go outside my apartment. It's too damn beautiful. It's too damn free. And, now, well, now, it's time to be an adult. Grow up. Suck up. Suck it up. Get a pant suit and low heels, go to some big city, and make my payback. And I hate it. I miss my family but I hate the idea of US living. It will crush me. So far as I can see now.
Blah blah. I know this isn't true. I know I'm adaptable, flexible, and in so much love with humanity that I can do anything. But for now, for tonight, I'm crying over a lot of spilled milk that is called lait in French and is beautiful.
[no editing
oh, and a ton of new photos over on Tumblr.]
When dad came to us every three years or so and explained that we'd be moving again.
The military life. People always ask if I liked moving all the time, liked living all over the world. Well, there was nothing to which to compare. I knew no different. And every few years, there he would come. I don't recall my mother telling us. I think she was left to the packing detail, while he often went ahead to establish something -- his work, our lives, a pattern?
It's the same, only different now.
I thought I'd love travelling, moving, carrying my life in a few suitcases and boxes. And, I do. I know very well - as much as my family knows I know, and joke with me that we'll grow annoyed with each other after a couple of months. I'm bred independent. I have no gut instinct for marriage, the house, the picket fence, the 2.5 children, the mortgage, the small city.
But this move. This change. Well, it comes with so much more to it, of course. I wouldn't be packing if my dad weren't sick. But what would I be doing? Who would I be now? We'll never answer this because of how things go now. Destiny? Karma? As it is. And this move, well, it's fucking hard. Hard with a capital H. Am I too old to live on my own without a family to sustain? Am I too tender to be so far?
Tonight, my father encouraged me in applying for certain jobs. All jobs. Anywhere. With travel as it is and internet, why not? But then, why didn't they visit me? Why did they never make it over here? Why did they not come for my graduation? They are building a last house, a house of self-sustaining proportion, of solar and water heat, of environmental friendliness. That could be the reason, although rumor has it that my mother wasn't interested in travelling.
She and I are too alike. We suffer anxiety. We suffer our go-go dancer tendancies. We adore newness but hate making it happen. I am more like my mother than I or she ever intended. I doubt she knows this, but I guess she has hints. After all, we fought like enemies for so long that I think she realized she had been cursed with herself re-born.
So now.
They are my footsteps. My decision to move. My destiny in making.
I don't think I've cried so much as an adult. I almost worry that I have early menopause. I see certain posturing of my parents on Skype and start to stop myself from crying. Yes, I know I'm delayed in development, in growing up, and it's only now, finally, that I realize the importance of family.
But ... well, there is such beauty in freedom, Paris, living.
Ugh. I'm too tired to finish this.
But it's why I find it hard to go outside my apartment. It's too damn beautiful. It's too damn free. And, now, well, now, it's time to be an adult. Grow up. Suck up. Suck it up. Get a pant suit and low heels, go to some big city, and make my payback. And I hate it. I miss my family but I hate the idea of US living. It will crush me. So far as I can see now.
Blah blah. I know this isn't true. I know I'm adaptable, flexible, and in so much love with humanity that I can do anything. But for now, for tonight, I'm crying over a lot of spilled milk that is called lait in French and is beautiful.
[no editing
oh, and a ton of new photos over on Tumblr.]
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
re: Paris is snobby pt.2
Paris is not insensitive or rude. Really, it’s true.
If you get on the metro, and sit down, at 7pm, and you’ve just uhm touched yourself to get off before going to visit your ex-lover, because well, you like him so much but you don’t feel like fucking him because you just fucked a great guy the night before and, while you showered, you want to remember the swell night you had, so you get off on your own, and then you get on the metro, and then, you’re listening - again - to great tunes on your headphones and you happen to smirk to yourself because you realize you still smell like sex, but then you realize that you should look at other things on the metro instead of realizing you smell yourself in all post-excited glory, and you look around, and up, and see… well, see a most beautiful man standing by the pole, and you love his striped sweater and think, “Damn, I love a man with a sexy half-shaved face and a prominent Adam’s Apple.” And then then he looks at you and you blush and smirk some more. And even giggle. And smile.
Well, I’ve heard that Parisians think that random smiling means you’re an idiot. Like, developmentally disabled. Like, retarded.
But you can’t help but smile. Because god he’s cute and shit, you’ve just cum, and life is good right now.
And then, at the next stop you watch him watching and smiling at you and then he moves to sit down over there, but re-directs and sits directly in front of you and says, “Bhalkdfowhfieowfhw” and you take off your headphones and say “Je ne parle pas français,” but you already knew what he was saying, which was like “Hey, what’re you smiling about? What’s so good to smile about? Anything in particular?” And you are too embarrassed to say, “You’re hot in that sweatshirt.” So you just smile and say “C’est la vie.” Which is a horribly over-used French phrase.
Then you find the words to say, I like your sweatshirt and he says something in French with a hand coming at you like a claw. But a sexy claw, like a claw that would tear your clothes off and make horribly fantastic love to you. And you get it - RIGHT! Freddy from Nightmare on Elm Street. And you say, “Freh-dee!” to convey your comprehension that you’re on the same level of what he’s trying to explain.
And he continues to talk to you, saying he only has 2 stops left. And, you’re blushing because you could have said, “I just came a minute ago. I’m on my way to my ex-lover. And you’re fucking hot. But I can’t make time to score your digits because I’m late already.”
So, he gets off the metro. The metro passes by and he’s nowhere in sight. You wonder if he knows what Craigslist Missed Connections is.
His fingers were solid gold.
If you get on the metro, and sit down, at 7pm, and you’ve just uhm touched yourself to get off before going to visit your ex-lover, because well, you like him so much but you don’t feel like fucking him because you just fucked a great guy the night before and, while you showered, you want to remember the swell night you had, so you get off on your own, and then you get on the metro, and then, you’re listening - again - to great tunes on your headphones and you happen to smirk to yourself because you realize you still smell like sex, but then you realize that you should look at other things on the metro instead of realizing you smell yourself in all post-excited glory, and you look around, and up, and see… well, see a most beautiful man standing by the pole, and you love his striped sweater and think, “Damn, I love a man with a sexy half-shaved face and a prominent Adam’s Apple.” And then then he looks at you and you blush and smirk some more. And even giggle. And smile.
Well, I’ve heard that Parisians think that random smiling means you’re an idiot. Like, developmentally disabled. Like, retarded.
But you can’t help but smile. Because god he’s cute and shit, you’ve just cum, and life is good right now.
And then, at the next stop you watch him watching and smiling at you and then he moves to sit down over there, but re-directs and sits directly in front of you and says, “Bhalkdfowhfieowfhw” and you take off your headphones and say “Je ne parle pas français,” but you already knew what he was saying, which was like “Hey, what’re you smiling about? What’s so good to smile about? Anything in particular?” And you are too embarrassed to say, “You’re hot in that sweatshirt.” So you just smile and say “C’est la vie.” Which is a horribly over-used French phrase.
Then you find the words to say, I like your sweatshirt and he says something in French with a hand coming at you like a claw. But a sexy claw, like a claw that would tear your clothes off and make horribly fantastic love to you. And you get it - RIGHT! Freddy from Nightmare on Elm Street. And you say, “Freh-dee!” to convey your comprehension that you’re on the same level of what he’s trying to explain.
And he continues to talk to you, saying he only has 2 stops left. And, you’re blushing because you could have said, “I just came a minute ago. I’m on my way to my ex-lover. And you’re fucking hot. But I can’t make time to score your digits because I’m late already.”
So, he gets off the metro. The metro passes by and he’s nowhere in sight. You wonder if he knows what Craigslist Missed Connections is.
His fingers were solid gold.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
re: Paris is snobby
Just so you know, you’ve got it all wrong. The myth that Paris is cold, rude, insensitive is basically a lie. It’s a front. To keep all the tourists out. Sure, some still get in and have their honeymoon in Tevas and North Face, or worse, British old lady mums who gossip loudly on the metro about every little thing they see.
Regardless, it’s not true that Paris is insensitive or rude.
If you decide to walk home from your lover’s apartment - a good long hike of 5 miles at 1am - because it’s not raining and why not? And then you suddenly break down into tears mid-way through because the music on your headphones is so damn good and your dad is sick with cancer and you have ten boxes waiting to be shipped to the States and your lover has the best cock that you won’t see ever again and Paris is quiet and lovely at night and you can’t hear yourself snort and sob ‘cause the music’s just so good and loud…. There will be a guy who stops, and asks if you’re ok, and you’ll say ça va, ça va, merci, and he’ll reach out and hand you a nice little tissue from his pack.
And, he might even follow you some of the way home. Or, at least to the Seine, because he’s afraid you might purposefully drop yourself in - or maybe some other fantasy he has but never realizes because you keep on walking. Through the Tuileries. Up by the Opera. And up the hill. And up the 101 stairs.
And, my god, wasn’t that so nice of Paris to guide you home, leave you alone, not scare you with strange men or strange cars or strangeness. In fact, how sweet of her to show some kindness.
[posted on tumblr]
Regardless, it’s not true that Paris is insensitive or rude.
If you decide to walk home from your lover’s apartment - a good long hike of 5 miles at 1am - because it’s not raining and why not? And then you suddenly break down into tears mid-way through because the music on your headphones is so damn good and your dad is sick with cancer and you have ten boxes waiting to be shipped to the States and your lover has the best cock that you won’t see ever again and Paris is quiet and lovely at night and you can’t hear yourself snort and sob ‘cause the music’s just so good and loud…. There will be a guy who stops, and asks if you’re ok, and you’ll say ça va, ça va, merci, and he’ll reach out and hand you a nice little tissue from his pack.
And, he might even follow you some of the way home. Or, at least to the Seine, because he’s afraid you might purposefully drop yourself in - or maybe some other fantasy he has but never realizes because you keep on walking. Through the Tuileries. Up by the Opera. And up the hill. And up the 101 stairs.
And, my god, wasn’t that so nice of Paris to guide you home, leave you alone, not scare you with strange men or strange cars or strangeness. In fact, how sweet of her to show some kindness.
[posted on tumblr]
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