Dreaming and Doing

I left Sunday night at 8:50pm, and kindly Greg A, gave me a ride to the airport, as conveniently his brother Frank was leaving about 2 hours before for San Francisco. Checking in my luggage was a breeze so we ate and then vroom I was off to security. It was Sunday night, so security was pretty quiet, I was actually the last person in my line, so I got to not worry about holding people up as I took off my shoes, and unpacked my laptop. Once through security it was the long walk to E concourse. Yes, I know there is a train, but the fact I am going to be sitting for however long on a plane, makes me walk. The art as usual made me sad. All that lovely Zimbabwean art that so few people see, and so few know about. My plane was at the gate, and not the last gate on a long wing for a change!

On board I thankfully had a window, bad oddly my seat did not recline :(. I settled in, started my new book After Dark – Haruki Murakami and next thing I knew we were off. I finished my book, and curled up and went to sleep, much to the disappointment of my seat mate, who seemed to want to talk. I woke up roughly every hour or so, stretched and went back to sleep. I think my longest awake period was the landing and taxing up to Charles De Gualle, over an hour.

Passport control, and customs were both a walk through, the only bit that sucked was the lines, and the pointless walking from place to place. But once through, I spotted Matthew before he spotted me! Then we walked to the train – RER B – and I needed to pee! So a quick look for “les toilettes” and the horror of paying 0,50 € for the privilege.

A little stroll fro the station and then we were at 163 Rue Saint-Martin, dropped off my bags, delivered Matthew his QWERTY keyboard! and then we went in search of food. We found a place Le Pavé and I had sardines on toast, which was perfect. We then crossed the tiny cobblestoned street so I could have a Gelato Orgasm.

A little bit more of walking around and then absolute delight as we seemed to stumble across the handbag row! About four blocks of wholesale handbag shops. After much debating we entered one and negotiated price and bought Charlotte a handbag. We also found a biodynamic, organic grocery store in which I picked out fig yoghurt, a cling peach, mango juice and chocolate granola. The other exciting purchase was at a pharmacy where I found deodorant – sans aluminuim, and body wash. Back to the apartment to nap.

Dinner was actually decided in advance, no wondering around reading menus. At lunch we had seen a place across the way called Akash which was Indian food. It was pretty tasty, I had Butter Chicken and a Nirvana Cocktail Which was raspberry cordial, champagne, and some other stuff…it was really sweet, but good. We then wandered through the first and the second arrondissement, passing the Louvre, Olio Pane Vino, the Opera House, Matthew’s work place and then we took the plunge and rented Velibs.

Just for the record, I have ridden a bike, once, in public, in a park, on a trail, the day I learnt about four years ago! So this was going to be an experience, but how else do you learn without pushing yourself? So after several stops and starts so we could get fairly good bikes we rode all the way back to Le Marais where I rewarded myself by ordering – on my own – a Vodka Tonic.

My mom texted me at 2:45 am Sunday morning to tell me my Aunt Lynette died. As much as I hoped she would pull through one more time it was not to happen. She will not see her son get married – this coming Friday, she will not make apple strudel, she will not travel as she dreamed. Life is short.

How to put into words what Lynette meant to me? She was loud, she was opinionated, she was kind, she was generous, she was out-spoken, she was funny, she drunk too much, she smoked too much, she loved so much, she wore clothes that never fit right, she was fearless. I loved her very much. I used to call her my second mother, she would embarrass me, she taught me to dance, she taught me how to make coffee, and she taught me to be brave.

She survived so much, a horrific car accident, terrible alcoholism, a rough childhood, some bad boyfriends, ovarian cancer, bad doctors, but in the end the cancer spread to far, and destroyed her brain. I am going to miss her. I will miss her 70’s eye makeup, loud and blue, I will miss her loud jingly bracelets, I will miss her demanding voice, I will miss her total bravery, her bad wig from chemo, her laying out and tanning in a bikini, with pins in her legs, sr.cars all over her face and all swollen from her car accident, still insistent she is beautiful and she was.

This is the bit I hate about being so far from home, I missed my Grandfather’s funeral and I will miss Lynette’s, there is no goodbye for me. I battle with this so much, I want to be home, help my Mom, have seen Lynette just once more to tell her how much I loved he

I have a fat lower lip :(, from Greg A, I walked into him when he switched direction, I don’t think he even noticed, but I am painfully aware of my swollen lip.

I think cause I just healed from chewing my lip the other day, that is why it swelled so quickly, it was fragile…

I burn bridges, I know I do, it is so I can’t go back.

I am slightly out of it tonight, one vodka tonic and one vicodin(thanks dre :)), but it makes me see things slowly, and almost but not quite, I see things as far away. People have such weird views about me, it often confuses me. Das Bunker was an off kilter night, odd crowd, never quite jelled.

But, I wore one of my favourite dresses, and felt pretty. My clothes, a hot button issue :(. I dress for me, I dress for me to feel special, beautiful and invincible. My clothes mean so much to me, I wish I could explain, it is not to make people stare and wonder at me, it is to make me feel protected, to feel I am me, and I have chosen to be a little different, sure. I have chosen to match the pictures in my head and my imagination and written a story, and my clothes are part of that story.

I am in my head: a princess, a fairy, a victorian lady, a fighter, a queen, a inscrutable lover, a dream, unobtainable, and a hard bitten sarcastic rocker. My clothes reflect all of this, in my head. Do I look pretty? Do I look nice? Do you love me? I am not you, I am me, always, just love the me.

I thought about Hrvoje, I thought about patience, I thought about kindness, and I thought about living, such is life.

Sometimes I wonder what I want to happen, what dreams I want to come true. I know I had dreams as a child that just moved on, but what of the ones that still move me?

Sometimes I wonder what I want to happen, what dreams I want to come true. I know I had dreams as a child that just moved on, but what of the ones that still move me?