I would put forth the sudden loss for a place to begin
but I am still in patient waiting for the winding down.
Markhov chains and images of crystalline spiderwebs floating three feet from the ground and touching every point in the multiverse simultaneously pulse through my brain and impinge on my vision. Such are the connections between me and the world right now.
My heart which slumbered so many years 'neath masks of fearlessness is filled with every sweet note and melody, from melancholy to pure, bubbling joy.
The grey sky in paris is shot through with veins of each colour that I have ever experienced.
Yesterday's f�te celebrating Sandra's job offer and Arn�'s finally getting up the courage to encounter the friends I've touted as more insane and vivid than I, shone with such a golden periphery...
My appartment lit by candles on every available surface, their long white necks craning from wax-drenched wine bottles on the bar and the table and the stove and the petite chemin�e in the corner where David and Kaffeine's faces on a printed photograph of the band shone out from the paper with the uberhuman glow they hold inside them.
The scent of apples and cognac and cream of the poulet normand, mingling with the memory of a perfect pat� de fois gras and cherry tomatoes stuffed with basil and goat cheese that we nibbled on with Sandra's vodka-and-pinapple apperitif, Mapie's lychee liquer soho-and-orange and the perfectly mellow port that eased us into the evening.
Arn� giggling and throwing Mapie over his shoulder to hurl her into the bath. The flush in his face showing the strains of parisian prudishness fading in a flash of realization at the incredible pulse of human contact.
(This morning he declared his love for Canadians, and that the moment he laid eyes on the furious energy that is Mapie, his breath caught in his throat. Such things are living poetry to me. Maybe one day even he will venture from this city that has trapped his too-large soul for twenty-five years and discover the world. Maybe the pain in him will begin to subside. No maybes, m�me, I can already see it beginning.)
Anna Maria's occasional quiet comments left me clutching my gut and rolling on the floor, spilled saffron rice and chocolate fondue sticking to my pants. Tonight is laundry night.
The quiet interlude between rousing renditions of random Seventies disco hits, sung raucously and passionately, as David's voice trembled over the ocean and into that tender space dans mon coeur reserved eternally for him.
Sitting in the bathtub, strains of festivities floating down the hall from the other room
My arms were wrapped about his waist from behind as I held him too tightly to breathe in that etherspace between thought and mundane reality.
Later, laying my head momentarily on Mapie's shoulder I shed a few quiet tears before returning to the "let's pick on the blonde" game.
And as everyone trailed out, S�b just risen from the couch where he'd passed out and thankfully didn't make my stomach turn exotic acrobatics (how do you tell a friend that her boy makes you ill?), the Proper Canadian Hearty Hugs followed by the Proper Parisian Bises left a slight tremor in my giggle at the denouement.
Blowing out the candles and putting Sandra to bed so that she wouldn't have to trek all the way home to Langjumeaux, we talked of self-improvement and the thrill of learning and the things people can share between them, the connections and lessons and the way The Beatles are suddenly no longer just a cheesy band to me thanks to the most beautiful man in the world...
This morning is still running on the end of last night, and passing by the post office to pick up what I THOUGHT was David's christmas book only to find the most touching (and impressively heavy) package from Steven...
Oh Steven, thank you, as I try to slough through work with the Thomas Jeffers' Hurt Hawks hissing into my headphones, the blanket of divine sentiment is nearly palpable as it drapes across the last remaining cold spot on my shoulders, even from so far across the atlantic.
And the cute little e-mail response to a personals WsW ad which I'd put up on Collegeclub so many years ago, from a beautiful young irish girl in Montreal who complmented me on a poem I'd entirely forgotten, back when my hair was a terribly unflattering crimson and I was still terrified of never finishing my degree, is just one too many links of Markhov blissfulness that I somehow wish I could unwind just enough of this infinite thread woven about my happinness, and sew a piece into every coat and scarf and hat I see huddling miserably in these streets.