Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Bonjour Madame

Sound track of the day:
He was the baby of the class, you
He really didn’t know that one and one was two
And two and two were four

Current Temperature: I’m off to Madrid and the rain looks like it’s going to finally let up. You’re welcome France.

Culture clash: The name of the school near us is called Lycee de Jeunes Filles. Doesn’t that sound lovely and so French? Well the translation of that into English is School for Young Girls. Now isn’t that just a big advertisement for pedophiles?






The antique market at Marchee Notre Dame is a lie. Antiques were nowhere to be found. Scattered sparsely and sadly across the market grounds were stalls of fake designer hand bags, variations of blue jeans, and random basics like socks, and belts Imagine if someone rounded up all the vendors in Herald Square and said, “guys, why don’t we just band together and create a market so we can trap people all in one place and confuse them with the word marchee.” Needless to say, I scanned quickly and moved on.

On the bright side, as a result of being in the square I learned that les halles, or the markets inside the surrounding structures, selling daily essentials such as bread, olives, wine, meats and cheese are open later than the outdoor food market. I still haven’t yet figured how to ask for olives. I’m working up my nerve to say “Je veux deux cent milligrams d’olive.” I’ll know by the facial response if it’s right or not.

People in France have a very nice sense of propriety. Sometimes that can seem insincere or pretentious, but on an everyday basis, it’s lovely, charming and it makes you feel connected in a way. When you pass your neighbors they will actually say hello bookended by an appropriate title. Upon entering the building or elevator you may receive a “bonjour madame,” “bon soir madame,” and after making a purchase at the bakery the counter girl will say “merci, au revoir madame.” These minor pleasantries do just that, make your life pleasant. The elderly gentleman on our floor, after departing from the elevator says, “bon nuit madame.” I flash an inner smile, and maybe sometimes outer, at these encounters and respond the best way I can, mostly by mimicking the greeting. That is, until I realized that the days of mademoiselle are over. I’m a fucking madame now!

On tonight’s menu:
Spinach tortellini with olive tapenade and pine nuts
Chicken wings
Roasted zucchini

Chateau de Grauzils Cahort

Monday, March 29, 2010

Digging Through Archives

Sound track of the day:
Do you remember once upon a time
When there were open doors
An invitation to the world
We were falling in and out with lovers
Looking out for others
Our sisters and our brothers

Current Temperature: Rain threatened all day but the sun prevails

Culture clash: Still raining more than New York City June 2009





This morning, I decided to get to business. In bed (couch) last night I pepped talked myself into getting my act together.

Stop living in fear Lynn. Write the book, live your life. What happens will happen and even if bad shit goes down, at least you’ll have done it all.

So that’s my nightly and morning mantra. I can’t do more than sit my ass in front of the page every day and give what I have. If what I have is 700 Hemingway worthy words, or just a spattering of thoughts, at least I sat there and put it down. The other deal I’ve made with myself is to write forward not back. Not to dangle over participles and break myself over clauses. The words come and they’re not mine. So just put down what I’m told and walk away at the end of the day.

I toss and turn at night running scenes through my head, debating ways to express the psychedelic experiences of my heroine, replaying transitions from reality to fantasy and I toil and toil over her thoughts and her personality. She’s adventurous and fearless. She’s ten. So no, she doesn’t have worries. So, I need to remember when I was that girl. I walk in her shoes through my sleepless nights wishing I had asked Brian for some Ambien before I left the states.

But in the morning, I plop myself at the table with the blank page in front of me, and nothing. Instead, I tour Facebook, check my email, chat, play music, even do pushups on the table as I stare at the blank screen. Eventually I walk away, decide to go to the market, check out the gardens at Chateau Versaiiles, watch a movie or just wander. I do everything but put to the page everything I considered the night before. It’s a pattern I’ve successfully burned into the carpet over the past couple of weeks.

So today I did something different, not entirely fruitful but more productive.

I finally looked at the manuscript. I really looked it at and got to know my characters, my heroine, all over again. I remember things that I still think are good. And I’ve noted changes where, in my naïveté, I once thought those ideas were brilliant.

I’m still relearning but I’m getting reacquainted, and that’s a start.

On tonight’s menu:
Caramelized fennel and pancetta salad
Sliced Baguette
Beaufort and Ossau Iraty cheese
Pear Jam
Berries for dessert

Monoprix Chardonnay

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

For every pound of stinky flesh, can I get a milligram of gold?

Sound track of the day:
With every day that passes I fall nearer to the ground
It seems that I’ve been searching for something that won’t be found

Current Temperature: Although still slightly brisk, it’s a glorious bright spring day in France. Even the daffodils are gracing us with their glow.

Culture clash: No CrestToothpaste in France? Mon dieu!



What the hell am I doing? The shit I spew out is pure crap. Even that statement is redundant. I cringe at every sentence, every poorly chosen word and watch as it smears its ugly face across the page. Life is too short and time is so precious and here I am producing worthless garbage. I know why I want to do this, my purpose is staring at me in the face each unproductive day and here it is again telling me I will fail myself if I don’t get something good going.

[and scene]

I had spent the day, exploring Versailles. It’s all starting to make sense to me now. So far I’ve only been following Jen around but the streets and stores are starting to make up a story. Strolling along Avenue St. Cloud is gorgeous with its wide promenade with bright yellow daffodils along its embankment. A flower market bustles just outside Passage Clemenceau, an underground walkway that gets you across St. Cloud halfway through the boulevard without having to walk to the end to find a cross walk. There’s a small Tabac at the entrance of Passage St. Phillipe that I think I’ll go back to after an hour spent there over a glass of wine. It seems that at any time, people will walk into the Tabac and order a pack of cigarettes, a glass or wine or an espresso and idly contemplate the weather. No one is rushed. I realize it’s Versailles, not Paris, but I get a sense that there’s nothing that is so urgent that it can wait for the rich cup of coffee to be fully experience. I thought the Italians had cornered the market on pleasure. I think the suburban French might give them a run for their money.

Monday, March 22, 2010

A Little Drop of Sunshine

Sound track of the day:
We’ve got tonight,
Who needs tomorrow?
We’ve got tonight, babe
Why don’t you stay?

Current Temperature: The veil hath been lifted…sorta

Culture clash: The Lycee de Jeune Filles is just a few doors down and is, duh, a girl’s school. And all the long locked laddies seen out front cradling the young girls in their arms are trespassing! Ah young love.





The sun made a brief and coy appearance today, as my well-being struggled the surface. I promised myself I would step out today even if it required bundling up in an unseasonably rigid fashion, even if only for a while to breathe uncontaminated air cycled from the French countryside. The promise I didn’t keep myself was that I would be up early. Nope, after a night of strange dreams, legs in and then out of the covers, sweater on and then off the shoulders, making the twelfth cup of tea for the night, checking Facebook for the umpteenth timing in the hopes that Rose took her freaking Lexulous turn, after all those exhaustive attempts at sleep just short of reading Jen’s case study I did not feel the need to pressure myself to wake up with the sun.

Instead I let it linger and tease my slumber until nearly noon when I heard rustling from Jen’s room, my signal to get the java brew started. Still, it was a struggle. Coffee in my PJs, pouring over an email from Mom who hadn’t quite yet made up her mind about whether or not to come visit, and morning glories still snuggling in the corners of my eyes (Jen is in the shower so I hadn’t washed my face) – these little bits of joy are what my morning was made of.

We hit the pavement just after noon, our reusable grocery bags in tow. It had been decided that today would be a shopping day to shake off the depression we’d accrued over a rainy and dank weekend. And so, we aimed for Rue de la Paroisse.

We started with lunch at La Cantine (the cafeteria), a modestly-sized café decorated like a children’s classroom, with mini-backpacks lining the walls and cartoons of little French children wishing what they’d like to be when they grow up (quand je serai grand, je ferai la gréve comme papa or when I grow up I will strike like my father – satire or a true aspiration? You can find more examles here.)I ordered a gargantuan salad topped with bresaola and green beans garnished with fresh parmesan. The food here, although it can be boring and redundant (for lack of variety), is fresh and colorful and so pleasing to the eye. Jen, after being here for over a year opted for the burger and fries. But leave it to the French to add an oeuf (egg).

At Sephora, despite my success at finding a perfect and mature lip stick, I was unable to ignore the fact that a man in a sterile black tunic kept his eyes closely watching my hands as I sniffed, sampled and all but tasted their products. In a town like Versailles where many of the country’s young elite live and train to be properly groomed, sufficiently educated and aptly cultured, I wonder if there is much of a shoplifting issue. Or is it simply the Asian tourists, having saved up their life’s efforts culminating in one fairy tale trip to France, that fall subject to their suspicious eyes? In any case, I couldn’t spend too much time pondering his doubting glances.

Rue de la Paroisse is a quant street with boutiques selling fragrances, shoes, home gifts. There is also the cobbler, dry cleaner and pharmacy. I was able to find some adorable wine glasses at Thym et Romarin for Jen’s apartment. If displayed along a windowsill, these glasses will reflect the sun in such a way that I know will take me back to my childhood and the days of crystal stained glass crafts and colorful friendship beads. If it doesn’t happen while I’m here we’ll try again when they’re in New Jersey where, I can’t believe I’m saying it, the sun will be more likely to shine with conviction.

Today, because the Marchee Notre Dame is closed on Mondays, we did not get fresh beets. No borsch. Instead, we got supplies to accompany the Vietnamese pork roll (cha lua) we bought on Saturday in Paris. A good end to a somewhat productive day. Hopefully tomorrow will be just as bright before the forecasted week of rain. God help me.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Hazy Shade of Winter

Sound track of the day:
Time, time, time, see what's become of me
While I looked around
For my possibilities
I was so hard to please
But look around, leaves are brown
And the sky is a hazy shade of winter

Current Temperature: Definitely have a cold

Culture clash: Jen was right. The French urban youth are much like New Jersey suburban youth. Harmless. Just annoying in their desire for street cred.





There seems to be a permanent gray sheen over the backdrop of Versailles, or is it all of France? Or is it simply the season? The sun is out, shining and brightly bombarding my pupils with its unavoidable power. Even with sunglasses (Lunettes de soleil, as they say en francais), I’m forced to squint a little. Yet with this pervasive presence the skies are filtered through a gloomy gloss which seems to have permeated my very soul, keeping me nicely snuggled with my blues.

To shake the dust off I took a walk to Helios Pub, which is really a brasserie, where I had lunch of calzone and a glass of wine. I ate and read another chapter of The Master and Margarita before proceeding to my walk to the Chateau de Versailles. There I circled around back toward the garden hoping the landscape would inspire me.

I was right. However, it inspired me into a state of melancholy. The ornate residences of the glamorous Marie Antoinette and her rowdy entourage stood lifeless, abandoned. They seemed to whisper of the shame of generations. Rather than a lavishly dressed crew frolicking through the gardens as envisioned by Sofia Coppola, oddly dressed tourists with children in tow sauntered through the landscape, out of place. The meticulously manicured lawn emitted a fragrance of pine but stood cold and unwelcoming. The fountains ran still, deprived of movement, their waters flat and only occasionally flirted with a stiff, cool breeze. The walkways were dusted with loose white gravel that covered my suede boots with each step. I will now have to get these cleaned.

I took pictures, trying to capture the melancholy but found my heart heavy, falling deeper into a spell of sadness.

In an effort to rejoin the living world I turned back and headed to the Monoprix for dinner fixings. Tonight I would make borsch. Armed with my list, I entered with confidence, found a shopping basket and proceeded to the produce section. At this point it occurred to me that I didn’t actually know with all certainty what a beet looked like. I’ve seen them before: cooked, canned, sliced and diced. I’ve even seen them in their original state, but so infrequently that I was afraid I’d end up picking up a jicama or some other root vegetable and produce a disaster for dinner. Scouring the produce I couldn’t quite figure out how the French would say the word beet, and there on the shelves with the leeks, cabbage and celery I saw a package of what I know was cooked beets. Betteraves. But no, there were no fresh, raw betteraves. Because the recipe I had did not allow for cooked beets, I changed my plan. Dinner will be pork chops and string beans.
Getting Settled In

Sound track of the day:
Tell me no secrets, tell me some lies
Give me no reasons, give me alibis
Tell me you love me and don't make me cry
Say anything but don't say goodbye

Current Temperature: another chance for a brighter day

Culture clash: Jen’s tub must have been made for titans. I practically have to hurdle over the edge to get in. Or am I really just that short?




My first full day on Tuesday started with a breakfast of coffee and morning news. Jen was already at the desk plugging away with school work when I woke up and probably engaging in a game of Lexulous.

Just after noon, we walked to a local café whose name I don’t remember. Jen doesn’t even remember, but she frequents this place for their large salads. I ordered a salad with duck. The French love their duck. And they love to share it. I’ve never had a salad so generously piled with meat: thinly sliced duck breast, smoked duck breast, and roasted dark meat on the bone, accompanied by some bib lettuce. Accompanied with sancerre it was a great culinary start to the day: simple and savory.

Our next stop was the Orange store, where I purchased my first European cell phone with 10 minutes for starters. I felt human again.

Next we shopped for groceries at Monoprix, the French version of a Super Kmart, except I didn’t see any auto or garden supplies. But the cheese, oh the cheese section was so enormous, so vast and divine I had to turn away my eyes. However, through the pasteurized glow I did not find one ounce of the best and most versatile cheese, cheddar. Not one wedge. Even in Italy, the land of parma, ricotta and asiago, there where small selections of cheddar. I decided I should probably search a specialty shop for that variety.

I tried not to go overboard in my grocery shopping as my eyes glazed over the new options and foreign packaging. After all, it wasn’t a quick walk back to the apartment, however gorgeous the trek. There were various selections of sardines from which I chose the store brand packaged in olive oil. As is customary for a LynnWinShopping experience I had a comprehensive list of items that should have gotten me through the next couple of days: yogurt, milk, eggs, arugula, pasta, sardines, Brussels sprouts, compte cheese, bread (oh the bread!), and wine. Check, check and check. They had all of these things. I suppose I would have to shop elsewhere if want to make Jen some Mexican tacos. All the tortillas were made from flour. Blasphemy!

When we finished our list, it was time to check out. This is the part I dread each day. Conversation. I have so little skill in French that every ounce of confidence and self possession I express in my everyday life has been stripped from me and I’m left a puddle of question marks and shoulder shrugs. For the time being I had Jen, but I knew that wasn’t going to last long. And so I paid attention, asked Jen lots of questions and hoped to retain as much as possible.

Another cultural observation: In France they charge you for grocery bags. Their very progressive approach is an attempt to reduce paper waste and I’m all for it. And I’m glad my home state of California has started to do the same in some places.

I tried to buy contact solution at the Pharmacie but they don’t seem to service people with gas permeable lenses. Luckily Jen’s friend is in the US and she has asked him to bring some back for me when he returns in three weeks. My current supply should last that long. Fingers crossed.


When we returned home I used the rest of the day to settle in. I unpacked my clothes into the cubbies and closet space Jen generously provided for me and placed my toiletries in her bathroom trying to take up as little space as possible and keep my belongings in a neat corner. Even still, you can definitely tell that two females live here with all the products lining the shelves and counters.

I tried cleaning my soiled but beautiful MZ Wallace bag according to the instructions the woman at the store in the West Village gave me but managed simply to spread the dirt thus rendering my bag a brownish orange rather than the original vibrant hue in which it came. I became crestfallen, because I love that bag. It really did give me such joy. But I chose to shake off the sad feeling and decided it was simply an excuse to buy a new one. I have tasked Jen with finding me the next perfect bag. I have the fullest faith that she will succeed.

When it was well past time to eat I met my part of the living arrangement by cooking dinner. The first home-made dinner in France was a first dish for me altogether. With Jen’s careful but not-overcrowded instruction, I made my first spaghetti carbonara. It was beautiful, if not slightly bland. Next time I’ll know to cook the bacon and onions a little bit longer, dash a lot more black pepper, and place the pasta in the sauce hot. Otherwise it wasn’t half bad for a first try. But live and learn.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Bienvenue a Versailles

Sound track of the day:
Hey kids, plug into the faithless
Maybe they're blinded
But Bennie makes them ageless
We shall survive, let us take ourselves along
Current Temperature: a gray day in the French countryside

Current Temperature: a gray day in the French countryside

Monday afternoon I arrived at Orly Airport which is in the suburbs of Paris. Jen and I had agreed to meet outside baggage claim and look for each other the old fashioned way. Without cell phones. I was skeptical, not for lack of faith, but for lack of practice. It’s been years since I’ve had to meet someone at an airport, other than my siblings who pick me up from SJO. At a strange airport I’ve always had the benefit of a cell phone to contact the subject of my rendezvous. Even more recently I’ve had my trusty Blackberry to guide me through the complexities of life such as airport maps, directory information. On Monday I had none of those things. Nor did I have Jen’s French number.

But here I was on a chilly Monday afternoon, surrounded by much signage in a language I hardly understood except for what my poorly abused mind could recall from 3 years of French in high school. Retrieving my baggage, I thought how quick and easy the process was compared to some recent travel experiences, but I was even further impressed by the fact that I no longer had to cross through Border control. Arriving in Dusseldorf and transferring to Paris I did not have to fill any customs or immigration documentation. I did not have to pick up my bags in Germany and have them rescanned. And, although less astounding, I didn’t have to cross through borders again in France. So when Jen told me to meet outside baggage claim after border protection I was slightly disoriented because this border protection place was missing. I simply walked from baggage claim and was outside in France. I wondered, “Am I so tired that I forgot to go through border control?”

So I waited a few minutes using the logic that if I stayed in one place eventually she would find me. Ten minutes and a cigarette later I told myself, “Lynn, that logic only works if she isn’t also following your logic by staying in one place.” It was then that I decided to start walking. I placed my bags in one of those giant shopping carts for luggage and proceeded to walk, swiveling my head left to right and occasionally around the back. I had my Asian girl radar on as I strolled slowly down the length of the airport willing myself to be as visible as possible so Jen wouldn’t miss me. I walked up on the outside length of the airport and walked down on the inside. After two laps, I was starting to think maybe I followed Jen’s directions poorly.

I sat down. I got up. I moved to a more visible section. I moved back outside. A nice man asked me if he could help me, but unless he knew my friend Jennifer and her phone number, there was nothing he could do to help me.

I strongly considered finding a computer, logging onto Facebook and messaging all of Jen’s HEC friends and telling them, “Can you call Jennifer Moon and tell her that her friend Lynn is waiting at Orly Sud outside smoking a Camel? And she’s cold.” I decided to reserve that plan for later, when I’ve absolutely run out of other ideas. I tried in vain to use my Blackberry to call Vicki and get Jen’s number, knowing full well that a) my cell phone doesn’t work internationally and b) I put the account on hold for three months. I contemplated hopping into a cab and going straight to her apartment. After all, I had her address.

Immediately I rejected the idea of trekking alone to Versailles. For starters, how stupid would it be if we both ended up in opposite ends of the trail? No, the important thing was to stick to the plan, stay where I told her I would and leave it at that. Not having mentioned the fact that we still wouldn’t have been able to reach each other via phone and I didn’t have her key, it was best to stay put. In hindsight, however, the idea of staying patiently at Orly was even further reinforced by the fact that the cab system in Ile de France isn’t quite as straight forward as the Taxi and Limousine Commission in NYC. There are Paris cabs, and there are suburban cabs, and each suburban cab has an assigned number on its license plate identifying which suburb it services. So you can’t just take any cab.

Even when Jen finally found me disoriented and lost like a stranded orphan and we searched for a cab, we were shown back and forth between two different taxi stands. A couple of numb nuts at the suburban stand told us we can get a Versailles cab at the Paris stand. After being rejected at the Paris stand we returned to our original location, at which point Jen said a few words to the two liars that I didn’t understand. But you don’t have to parlez-vous francais to be able to understand when Jen is telling someone off.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

The Perfect Storm

Sound track of the day:
I think of you every night and day
You took my love and you took my pride away

Current Temperature: sunny and hopeful





The Florida Keys is an experience much like walking into a Jimmy Buffett wonderland. And that’s not a bad thing. The alcohol is always flowing and no one’s going to judge whether you abstain or dive right into a week-long binge. During the day you’ll find weekenders and tourists enjoying the sun and sea lapping up the hedonistic vibrations, noshing on conch fritters (pronounced conck), and sucking down rum runners. At night everyone gets gussied up, although still half naked, and hits any one of a number of joints with live music, often accompanied by comedy.

This weekend Vicki and I had the pleasure of, not only enjoying Key West in its own ridiculously decadent splendor, but also of being able to experience it with the dash of spring break debauchery and a sprinkle of St. Patty’s day obscenities. It was the perfect storm to make this trip memorable. We stopped by Cowboy Bills where the live band was top notch featuring a guitarist right out of a CCR revival band, and an electronic bull was in full effect tossing off young able-bodied college kids to the bruising of their delicate egos. The second place Vicki took me was the rooftop of The Bull and Whistle, aptly called the Garden of Eden. Despite the stares and jeering of us, less evolved gawkers, several tanned, mostly old, bodies were dancing around in nothing but their skivvies, real small ones. One man, I’m guessing in this 60s, bounced around with just a slim g-string and a patch of cloth to cover his junk. I keep hoping he wouldn’t show brain. I think that night ended at Irish Kevin’s where a performer who goes by JMH gave a raunchy and brilliant performance in the spirit of Dane Cook and all those misogynistic comedians who are most likely married and owe their humor to this ever-supportive wives. Among all of these bar visits, the best, hands down, was the visit to the Lazy Gecky where a duo of guitar playing guys entertained a crowd of partiers with country classics like the Allman Brothers and new hits from Kings of Leon. My favorite by far was a hearty rendition of Garth Brook’s “I got friends in low place,” which brought warm memories of an early January morning romping the alleyways of Washington D.C., while belting the lonely tune with two good friends.

The highlight of our brief time in Key West was the visit to Hemingway’s house. Being dead and relatively private, he’s always been a mystery to me. Rumors of his alcoholism and his deep depressions make me wonder how someone with so many internal troubles managed to have such a prolific writing career, while I, with my lack of responsibility and a good childhood, am hardly able to get a blog post written without stepping away every 5 minutes to find something else to do. Seven hundred words a day sounds doable, but sometimes you have to squeeze every last drop from a place so deep in your core that you run your hands red trying. And sometimes that place is dry. We learned from our tour guide what I had already suspected, that dear Ernest was a major philanderer, hated his social climbing second wife, and was an original good ol’ boy – writing by day, catching record winning marlin and ending each night with a nightcap (or 10) at Sloppy Joe’s bar down the street.

On the streets of Key West, although you might not hear it with your real ears, you can sense that somewhere, some bar is playing the good tunes “I blew out my flip flop...” and “It’s five o’clock somewhere”. You start to talk to the locals and note how happy and utterly friendly they are. You also find that many move along too slowly as if life is going to last forever. You start to resent their indifference at your sense of urgency, even though you know you’ve slowed down a good couple of notches from your regular life speed. You find yourself praying to the god of sun and tequila, “please don’t take my brain too. I really like it.”

Then after a couple of days of the sun and purely good vibes you start to think “maybe, in exchange for this lifestyle my wits aren’t all that important.” And that’s when you know you have to leave.

Tuesday, March 09, 2010

The other sister and her friend Lenny

Sound track of the day:
This is the noise that keeps me awake
My head explodes and my body aches

Current Temperature: easier on the eyes



As evidence that the universe gets its kicks in amusing me and exercising my sense of humor, Vicki’s roommate and her new giant lover have decided to shack up.

Last night as I was blow drying my hair after a much needed shower, I hear Vicki chirping near the stair way. Preparing a warm hello I poke my head out the bathroom door and see her standing there with a scary smile on her face and a full glass of wine in hand, “We have to talk.”

Naturally, I rummage quickly around my mind to guess the situation. Did her roommate do something stupid? Did something bad happen at work? Did I forget to flush the toilet? I should have stopped at the first guess. Giant Lolita did do something stupid. She recruited Thor as a third roommate without even so much as a nudge toward Vicki. In fact, Vicki didn’t even hear directly from her. She received a call yesterday afternoon from a good friend who happens to be an acquaintance of GL, and was told the news. Vicki ended that call pronto in order to get the lowdown straight from the source. Needless to say, Vicki will be looking for another apartment.

As Vicki recounted the conversation to me I’m stunned. My mouth froze agape and I didn’t have the words. The only thing that manages to escape, and repeatedly, is “What an IDIOT!” She had known the behemoth for less than 24 hours when she made this decision. One very loud, and seemingly violent romp in the sack and they’re nesting? It’s just so bizarre. It’s like watching your prized cow run into the thrashing cone of a tornado and shouting for joy. My emotions of annoyance, giddy and anger eventually wound down to sheer astonishment and awe at one person’s ability to escape a depressed communist regime, become educated and even become a doctor and to then regress to that other version of herself; the one missing a chromosome. El Jefe Castro should be thankful to be rid of her.

The fact that I’m sitting here on a sunny Miami day attempting to describe the absurdity of the situation is ludicrous. How can I explain that she should consider the effect this will have on her living situation or the risk she is taking at offending her roommate, when any normal, functioning human being should not need to go through this thought process – at least not consciously. Does it need to be said? Don’t do it genius.

C-U next Tuesday.

Monday, March 08, 2010

Confessions of an imposter

Sountrack of the afternoon:
You and me have seen everything to see
From Bangkok to Calgary
And the soles of your shoes are all worn down
The time for sleep is now
It's nothing to cry about
'cause we'll hold each other soon
In the blackest of rooms

Current temperature: even brighter, but the fairy dust on the surface of the water makes it easy to tolerate




Needless to say it’s no easy feat to restart a writing practice after so many years of neglect. Fear and self-doubt are unwanted castaways on my journey toward voice recovery. Lack of practice makes me feel like a chef who can’t remember if it’s best to roux before, during or after the sauce has boiled. Procrastination and distraction are friends to my delay and enemies to my progress. Laundry, emails, photography are all tools for distraction. Even the act of writing this entry is in a small way contributing to the delinquency of my writing, so much in need of nurturing and guidance. God help me if I add food to that equation.

It’s so much easier to read something guaranteed to be of good quality. Tried and true, the real author’s words feed my hunger for imagery, poetry, song. But actually attempting to create something, risking the possibility of turning out a piece of crap, takes courage and moxy. Facing the sad and disappointing result after hours, days, even months of struggle can be heart breaking, soul tearing. So I read. I read and read and read. I memorize and I feel the words flying across the printed page until I soon become the author from which those beautiful phrases came. My greed consumes his work, devours his creation. It’s easier than giving of my own. And then when I’ve taken all I can, I feel inspired and hit the page. I move steadily into it carving out each detail, the words taking shape giving contours where they are needed. And then I see it. I see that I haven’t created anything at all. I’ve simply invoked the heart and soul of the author, breathed life into the voice that lie sleeping in the deep caves of my mind, but that life isn’t my own. I’m a fake.

And so I ask myself if the solution here, the way to avoid falsifying my own voice, is to stop reading. Stop reading? That’s just purely ridiculous. How can I stop reading if reading is the very air I breathe? I just can’t do it. Don’t make me.

What if I just took what I learn from another’s craft, sprinkled it with the style from some other favorites and stirred in the bits and scraps from my own memories and dreams? If the ingredients were blended so completely together like a lyrical puree, would they be discernible by their distinct qualities? I then call that concoction my own. Who is the judge of that? Who will ever really know?

Day 1 of my fantastic voyage

Soundtrack of the day
Even though your skies are blue
You're drying up my bed
How can I get any rest now?
Currently temperature: blindingly bright but the outlook is gentle





















I called today Day 1 because, up until now, although I’ve been free from the 9 to 5 for over a week, it is the first non-packing, non-moving, non-sayingoodbye, non-traveling day, which means it’s time to get to work.

When I laid down to rest last night, I had the best of intentions for starting my day with yoga, doing some laundry and beginning some writing exercises. Instead, I woke up late, slowly drank my coffee, put in a load of laundry and watched the Today show. I hadn’t yet found a yoga studio and when I finally found one within walking distance the class times didn’t work out. I’d go for a run but the UV index is probably very dangerous right now. The sunshine and steady tide flowing by is keeping me strapped to this deck. That walk along the beach will have to wait until the sun is a bit lower and the breeze is a bit stronger.

As I transferred my first load of laundry to the dryer, I heard footsteps upstairs. I thought I was alone, TV blasting, windows all opened, a song in my heart. Then I realized that it was the giant Swede who spent the night with Vicki’s roommate. They did have a lot of fun last night. I heard them from across the hall, and under my covers. Pardon my juvenile tendencies but it was hilarious and I quietly giggled. Chatting on AIM with Eugene last night didn’t help, because he only managed to aggravate the situation by making me want to laugh out loud and roll on the floor. But they beat me to it.

He's in the shower now. After joining me for coffee and rollerblading to his place, he realized his roommate (or rather, his couch surfing host) was not home to let him in. What a life, and now he’s back. We had lunch together: Thor with his Subway sandwich; me with my leftovers from last night’s BBQ.

I wonder how long he’ll be here. I don’t mind, he’s good company. But I don’t think I’m allowed to leave him here alone. And how am I supposed to choreograph my interpretive dance to Beyonce’s Halo?

I’m sure he’ll leave eventually. Until then I’ll finish my laundry, maybe work on my tan, and kick it with the cats on the deck.

More later.