On A Bench On The Seine

This is the part of the book for realizations; somber, universal, beautiful things, and that's why I'm listening to Mayer Hawthorne, and that's why I read well written words before.  Because these are the words of the entire book.

I still remember it, like some grand masterpiece frozen in, I don't know, impressionism.  Windy, frozen impressionism on a grand scale, only magnified by my solidarity.  I was alone.  Not just alone, locked out.  Trapped in the night.  Yes, that was it.  Ok, I think I'm ready -->


But no matter.  I love this city.  She weeps with me the dry frozen tears that come from turning over one's life with no cash in hand because Paris is a woman, and as such she is cruel.  She is friendly, she is dark.  She's insanity, she is mystery.  She is older and younger and the same age as me.  She is wise, she's conniving.  She is thriving.  She is trust and passion, and lust and fashion.  She is graceful mais féroce aussi.  And a fire, I know, but I love her.  Because a woman is a most beautiful creature, maybe the most, but I'll never understand her.  I'm not sure that I'm meant to, or want to for that matter.


[I think I said it better the first time.]

There Was A Time

There was a time when the world was an oyster, and I sat there relishing in the complex flavors, the cold meat.  It was beautiful, everything.  But I was lost, and maybe that's what made everything so real.  The caution of not knowing where the fuck I was.

It's awareness.  It's attention to detail, and the details of the day to day, the different everything.  The girls, the beds, the world's cities and the small towns.

Now everything's the same.  Like life's turned on a dime in the split of an eye, and I write in clichés now.

The hunger is gone, replaced by a loss of appetite.  I've beaten the feeling out of me with shear workload, and the body's gone numb.  I've succumbed.

I've lost the voice in my head, he's run off and left me, all alone.  Alone with my thoughts.  Alone with my heavy eyes and buzzing brain.  I've never worked so hard with nothing to show for.  For what?  School?  A certificate?  It was a whim.  Fuck me.  Fry me.  I always pick the most carnivorous ones, it seems.  And look at me now.  The sleep won't find me, and there's no comfort in the food, and everything feels so far away.

Alone, yes.  But alone we find strength.  I'll persevere.  Yes.  That's how it will be.  There will be a time, like a lucid dream soon, like I'm floating to the moon, past the stars and the stratosphere, to the top of all this clutter and mess of it, and I will find peace  You'll see.  It's going to be a breeze.

Douglas Coupland

My man Douglas here says it's a breaking.  We all break.  And it's sad.  And I understand.  It's called growing up.  Contrary to what other's think, it's not something that happens over time.  People that think it does never really grow up, and maybe they never break, or it happens much later and they have no fucking idea what's happening so they call it a crisis, mid-life.

No, growing up is a moment.  It either breaks you or it makes you stronger.  Under pressure, matter does one of two things.  It either shatters, or it hardens.  Some people just crack though.  They're the ones that limp on through life.

I'm not one for limping.


"And then I felt sad because I realized that once people are broken in certain ways, they can't ever be fixed, and this is something nobody ever tells you when you are young and it never fails to surprise you as you grow older as you see the people in your life break one by one.  You wonder when your turn is going to be, or if it's already happened."

                    ~Douglas Coupland

Winter Blacksmith

There comes a time just before winter turns to spring, when the sun's out but the air is still crisp in Venice.  The ocean hasn't quite warmed up just south of the Pier and the water moves quick from the south with the swell, and it comes.  The waves are fun, and one remembers.

It's at this time that perspective comes.  Big picture shit.  Deep breaths and a zen calm.  Purpose.  I know what I want.  And it's not money, it's not financial resolve.  I want to be happy.  I'm not stupid.  And with this many years notched on the belt, I'm pretty sure I have the wherewithall to know how to achieve this.  This happiness.  Or at least I can recognize it within myself.  The simple things that bring rest to my weary soul.  They're at the shop. 

They manifest themselves in the people I'm surrounded with.  And once again, my skin breathes like it had before.  And the tension takes flight, and everything feels right. 

Now that is a feeling of undescribable peace.

Imagine that.

The strength of resolve beating in the chest.  At the core.  The very meaning of existence like a polaroid popped out in my hand.

Simplicity.  Freedom. 

Repeated, over and over and over again in my head, it seems strange.  To say we, each one of us has a purpose.  That we're deemed for something.  That sounds unfounded.  Dreamer mentality.  Excuses.

Fuck it.  Excuse me. 

My soul flowers here.  I'm happy here.  I think that should be enough.

Because some of us are troubadors, some are kings, some are poets, and some of us are blacksmiths.  What did Albert Einstein say about the fish?  It wasn't meant to climb to the tree, or something along those lines.  It loves swimming.  It excels at it.  A real blacksmith loves to work metal, he doesn't despise it.  A real poet loves his verse.  It doesn't push him, it carries him, and it doesn't strain, and the yolk of life is light. 

No it doesn't have to be, but why shouldn't it.  Life's meant for living.  So fuck off and let me write.

That felt good.  This is who I am.  If it's meant for me, it will come.  It always does.


“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”    ~ Monsieur Einstein