Archive | November, 2010
28 Nov


Pont Neuf, early Sunday morning. He is standing there in a long-sleeved T-shirt and ripped up brownish canvas jeans. He’s staring into the water as if something, something brilliant and boiling and wild, will come out, slap him in the face, and teach him all there is to know.
I’m descending the stairs, freshly sweaty from the heat in the Metro- six stops underground, packed with the hoi polloi like sardines- and weary. It’s been a long time since I returned here; the memories in my bones are growing restless. I want to let them out, to listen, but there are more important matters at hand. I clutch my jacket more tightly around my waist and step faster- the stairs underneath make a clip-clopping noise- until I’m on the Pont itself, just feet away from him.
“Monsieur!” I say. It comes out funny, seeing as the air in my lungs has suddenly frozen the rest of my body into tiny shards of conciousness.
He turns. “Madamoiselle? Qu’est-ce que vous voudrais– ah.”
There is a silence as our eyes meet. He recognises me, obviously- that drunken night in the Marais, confused and out of our minds on a million different hallucinogenics (mainly trust and blind love and lust) that sped us up the stairs to his apartment where we made a mess of his kitchen before organizing ourselves more efficiently and fufilling the duty we’d nearly started right there in the smoking area of the discotheque before being kicked out by the manager. But I digress- the important part, the reason I stopped feeling acid in my veins, was the recognisation.
“Je n’ai pas vous oublié,” he says. I didn’t forget you.
Another strange silence. I don’t want to doubt myself, I can’t doubt myself, but there is a nagging feeling in my heart nonetheless. I want to run off and fling myself into the dirty water below, just to escape this conversation. I won’t, though, because he says:
“alors– qu’est-ce que vous faitez en Paris?” What are you doing in Paris?
I look at him. Still the same. Maybe wearier, maybe sadder, but the aquiline nose is still there, the dark eyes, the longish messy hair. The build- not too skinny, but not broad or
muscular- still there, though he’s getting older and you can tell it in his posture. I suddenly realize he’s asked me a question.
“Uh, pour visiter le cite, quoi autre raison?”
“Pas pour moi?”
I can’t answer him.

a request

25 Nov



i walked?

23 Nov

I find the older I get the more I notice things out of the realm of others’ sight. It is strange and it firmly cements me in my earthly binds, which might be a good thing, I guess, but currently things are confusing me and I can’t seem to find the air I’m swimming towards.
I am lying on a twin-size bed in a house that isn’t really my home but will have to do at least for this week while some people I don’t know go into my house and replace the tiny Mount Vesuviuses of tile that are stuck to the floor. The room that the bed and I are in is a yellowy off-white, probably named something infinitely clever by the company who manufactures it. Probably something like “cloud” or “7th Heaven” or maybe something vaguely angel related: “we have heard on high” comes to mind; or something similar.
More worrying, though (at least to me) are the dreams and general ennui plaguing me involving The Poet. I look into a window and think I see his face- I hope fervently while I work that I’ll look up at one of the tourists and it’ll be his smiling face looking down at me, asking “well, imagine this!” and presently congealing into a lovely conversation. I miss this Poet. I miss him a helluvalot. I want him here, or I want to be there, or something– somehow, I want us to talk again under the leaves of old oak trees, watching water cascade into fountains– or running home in the rain, clutching a hot crepe to our chests.

So many memories. I can’t keep them from flooding my mind.
Wil visited Paris a few weeks ago, I am very jealous. I hope it’s treated him nicely. I hope he went to Rue Vavin and stood there, quiet and pensive. I hope he understands the changes it created in all of us. I hope he knows.

just named you laika

13 Nov

First off, I am deeply contrite for the distinct lack of new content on this blog. School and the Play are reaching apexes at the same time, meaning that I am barely able to keep my eyes open when I return home, much less summon the brainpower to write a marginally intelligent blog post. Again, my deepest apologies.
I am currently lying in bed, fretting about how I’m going to get into the Dive Shop before 9:15, but also feeling really superbly comfortable.
The WordPress app on my iTouch is the worst, most glitchy thing I’ve ever used. It used to be good, but then they updated it and it became intolerable. Augh.

neighborhood #2 (laika)

4 Nov

sorry for titling this post as an arcade fire song, but gottedammerung I have been listening to this song over and over again for about three days and I am going to go nuts.

It is currently sixth period. I am supposed to be doing college prep, but instead I am writing this and dreading next period’s calc test. I might do well? Maybe? I understand part of it. Cameron just started dancing shirtless in Room 2. I fear for the worst.

Well, otherwise- the Poet dreams stopped, at least for now; I hope he still remembers that I exist, but eehhh. I do hope I see him again. Eventually.

ANYway, I’m getting super into a lot of the stuff Tobacco’s doing, it is rather nice sort of pseudo hip-hop. I dig the tracks involving Beck. I want to rap freestyle over them, but as I am 1. white and 2. a lady, that will not go over well. oh and 3. i cannot rap.

For some reason, also, this week is a week full of late-ass play practices. NOT SWELL. NO. I have a shitload of work (mainly due to US History, a class which I shirk and cut corners at every opportunity.) and it’s all essays and shit and aaahhh essays. I hate essays. I HATE THEM.

also now I have a skype, add me if you want, if i know you I will add you back. Yay! it is nannerspy and I look forward to talking to a million people all at once. A MILLION. A MILLLLLION.

will write later, daaahlings.


3 Nov

I dreamt of the Poet last night.
This is beginning to worry me- this tendency. I don’t want to lose contact with him.
It was in first person, the dream–at the end I started hearing “Wake Up” and my mom shook me awake.


Still moving forward. I only want some form of communication between the two of us– one he actually uses, for that matter–but I don’t want to creep him out.

Ah well. We’ll see.