Some days the knowledge of work done well is the only glowing beacon admidst paperasses and the imminent collapse of friendships based on "I need you to talk to but I don't have time for you to talk to me..."
Saturday Marie-Pierre in her boundless energy and exuberance helped me lug suitcases and unidentified plastic bags up spiralling wooden stairs, and then settled in for round two of madness as we hit the hypermarch� for cutlery and towels, a vacuum cleaner, and a telephone that wouldn't work until this morning.
Saturday, we drank aperitifs and ate well-oiled pasta and downed a bottle entier de Brouilly before noticing that our giggling about the joy of blowjobs might have been slightly drunken.
The effort she unquestioningly gave me all of her saturday, when Anna Maria called me in the morning to just let her know when I was finished moving...
Maybe Marie-Pierre still has too much canadian in her, despite her years living in Paris.
Maybe she's just got a heart to rival the size of her smile.
The two of us, blonde and giggling, emerging from La D�fense laden down with backpacks of purchases, confronted with a line of immaculately dressed suicase-surrounded people awaiting taxis.
We marched up, purchases precariously balanced, and asked the coordinator if we could have a cab.
All smiles, he led us to the front of the line, thanked us for being so polite and sweet and blonde...
In the cab, we considered feeling bad for the black-swathed attendees of the fashion conference at the CNIT, but we were too busy discussing epiculture with the cab driver who made us gifts of honey that he'd made of verveine, with his phone number inscribed upon them.
Sunday, I woke up to the bells of the Cathedral, and drank syrupy italian coffee from the shiny silver coffeemaker that sat on my stove and burbled happily in a sunbeam.
But I have so much work to do... I have no time to be writing here, less time for Non Servium and less even for the roiling worries behind every action.
One day soon, though, I promise, I will take up martial arts classes again at the Mairie across the street. Every ounce of convenience has fallen into place, all that is left is my initiative...
And monstres, while swathed in wool and silk and sitting at wide wooden desks, still believe in initiative.
Oh if only I could explain how much I miss his skin... And how terrified I am of how badly I want to possess it en permanence.