Parisian dreams

Recovering from another sleepless night, I have spent the day worrying about my trip to Paris eight months from now to celebrate ma cinquante annee. In my web crawling I have decided, a) I like the hotel I booked even it is expensive and not mentioned in any guidebook, b) I will have to be tres joli and thin when I get there because I'm saving up my clothes budget until then, c) I'm traveling light because I want to take the RER & Metro from the airport and not worry about dragging around too much luggage, d) we may go to Provence, as the weather should be marvielleux, e) I'm a f---ing lucky bitch. Oh yeah, and we can't go to Wilco in East Lansing cause of the Pension conference in Washington. At least that hotel is 3 1/2 stars. It would have to be for me to be sanguine about missing Jeff Tweedy.

All this is a dodge from yesterday's revelations. Dad has "parkinsonism" symptoms from the mother f---ing anti-depressants. I should have stayed at the writers group as the new attendee Charmie is both a party-er, and a published writer with an agent. PV's sister Kathy is in the hospital now with "cognitive symptoms" from the brain tumor, and whenever someone's end is near, well the f---ing world just seems that much more precious.

At least ma mari took care of me last night in the sweet Monday after vacation unlikely-to-get-lucky surprise of it all. Eat your heart out Mr. Tweedy.

TODAY'S FRENCH LESSON courtesy of
http://squeamishgirl.blogspot.com/

"Il faut que je soit nicable". He had a very hearty laugh and responded, "Yes, that's true, but that's not what she said." Confused, I replied, "But how do you know, how can you be so sure?"

He laughed again and said that she must have said "Il faut que tu soit nickel" (You need to be perfect), because he would have been shocked had she said, as I understood, You need to be fuck-able.

too early or too late

I can never figure out which it is. Sleep is a sacrament sometimes. Time is leafing out like the trees, invisible in the dark, but always there. I am here trying to stay in the now, the holy present, not in past of regret, or the future of plans and dreams. Now, cold feet, slight ache in the lower back, but here in the quiet, only the rush of silence through my ears.

I read all day like a kid, sprawled out on my bed, sometimes rolled in the covers, but breathless and unmovable. The book, The Keep by Jennifer Egan, was compelling, riveting, frustrating, sometimes terrifying. Now over, I have that comedown feeling of having done some worthless drug and lost a day. What better way to finish up vacation?

Along with the feeling is the ghost of insecurity. Will my book ever be so compelling? Does anyone realize the work to hatch the book that swims in the brain? My friend Sheila, (some friend) is always saying things to me like, since you don't work... Such work, rewarding at times, but at others gut wrenching, terrifying, and stultifyingly detailed. And always with it carries the grenade of self-doubt. So fuck her. She's never had enough courage to be anything but a bully.

So I'll try to be my own best friend. Trying is better than getting to the end of life and being full of regret for not. How better to use the skill set that I own now, mother, friend, lover, ex-pot addict, recovering sattelite.