There's a curious duality on the plane with me back to Paris in the form of two Russian twin flight attendants; deportation. Something strange is happening to me. I started and shuttered a book in one day, all in Russia, Russian author too, and for the first time ever I might say, but then again I'd never been deported either. It could possibly be the subtle insanity of fluorescent that hasn't escaped me since Paris, since going under at Temple. I was sitting with Olivia and her friend Nate and an acting acupuncturist not long before that, and like the color sinking with the lines into a Polaroid before my eyes, I see the image now crystallize.
Black Cat, second story window.
Olivia jumped with delight as I pointed it out, all the while that slow still sinking feeling flooding over me. I thought it'd merely be the layover.
I think it was Elizabeth of Lili and the Dirty Moccasins who said she once considered the thought that we could be cursed; said she thought she was at one time.
It's important though to know that for her it was a passing phase. She didn't believe it anymore and maybe because of that, the lack of a strange maybe misguided belief, because of that she was better off.
Maybe she was. Maybe it's safer to think that, but really a rejection of one belief only leads inevitably to another; in this case one of coincidence; a belief in randomness after all is still a belief. It's to believe that the things in our lives are not connected. And then that's how is has to be. A belief above all things no matter what it's in, is absolute. It has to be, otherwise you don't really believe it, do you.
For example, I haven't abandoned my cursed nature, not yet. I believe in the connection of things, in their meanings, in the meanings of everything, everything that holds in my mind. True, sometimes I choose to ignore it (which specifically isn't to say that some things don't mean anything), that simply means to me that I was too lazy to grasp the meaning. Do you know what I mean? It makes sense to me. I'm a very lazy person when I choose to be.
And yet, I was just deported back to Paris. There's a reason for that. I cut my finger with my old razor today, and there's a little red scar on it, my finger, the middle right, and it looks like a tear-drop or a rain-drop or maybe an eye.
I wonder what it means.
