This is odd. It's Radical Fun Day 2.0, and I don't have a piece written. I'd
finished one a while back, but it just doesn't feel fun anymore. So now I'm a
little stuck. Quick, before class, come up with something fun. Something that
doesn't just have to do with the goddamn Man. In truth, I’d prefer doing anything right now - play casino online games, run a marathon, clean my apartment – than mining my creativity for something to post. It’s no fun trying to write fun when don’t feel fun. But, I remind myself of the task at hand, take a seat at the keyboard, and focus. The point of this exercise is
quite important after all. It is to release us from the constant engagement with
the way things are, and to give a push and pull at the horizon of our
No pressure, of course.
So losing one piece on ice, I shall steal another. This is probably one of
the odder things I've ever written. It is on beat up legal paper, with several
different shades of cheap blue and purple pens. It' is folded over several
times, and is interspersed with another piece. Lines of academicese on Dante and
the semantic structure of torture give way to romantic poetry.
This is a very belated travel blog, a snap shot of being in Paris.
I walked Paris last night. Miles from Gare Monteparnasse to the Tour Eiffel,
to the Arc de Triooopmh (as it is called in the vernacular of our day), Louvre,
Toullieries, and finally back to Notre Dame.
The air was cold, but not all consumingly so and I just kept on walking, all
my gear with me. I had one ear open to the street, for oncoming cars, for
vendors, for anything new. The other was being dedicated to country gospel and
the House of Mercy Band took the stage.
It was cold and I was having my dinner of wheat bread, chasing after it now
and again with the brandy, and it was beautiful to me, and so it went all the
way to my fingers and kept them warm.
It was cold and the fading light of the sky did nothing to conceal me as a
tourist and a watcher, but i crept anyways as if it might make a difference, and
I guess I couldn't be found. Not a single soul who knew my Christian name could
have called out to me then. So I stayed high above it, because the river was
rising and swirling over the paths below.
It was cold, and I was awake, alive, loving every minute, every hour the
lights of the tower would flash and sparkle. My camera flashed, but when I
really wanted to remember something, I just stared.
It was cold, and I thought about Athens, the future, Yale, and everything and
nothing. My thoughts swirled in the brandy, biting my throat, just a little and
made me silence it all.
Now warm again, paying tourist prices for espresso, and one last last final
until it happens again dance with Notre Dame. That beautiful place that tells me
that it is not over, and my jaw can still drop and not to talk but just to
stare. It is lit for night, and the gargoyles scream, but then again there is
Paul and I think I know him. I wish the doors were open, but I content myself to
eat the last of my bread.
I hardly slept.
Resting now, calm morning, still thinking of bread and brandy, solitary
communion, peace and love.
Yours in the fun,