Past Perfect

Ahh, it's good to be on a new schedule. Rising at seven-thirty in the morning feels like an indulgence in over-sleeping. By eight the dishes are done and a new cupboard has been reorganized. It's another sunny, beautiful day here.

I feel unburdened these past few days. I've let a lot go, much more than I might have hoped. Coming home I felt empty and I still do, in some ways, but in that space I've found room to breathe. I'm singing again, and boldly.

Yesterday a friend put forth the idea that the past is perfect, in a way, because it can only ever be what it was. There's some truth in that. Another friend jokingly asked me to describe my trip in ten words or less, to which I replied: Paris was freeing, freezing, complicated, illuminating, costly, beautiful, peaceful, quick...

How much has changed in the days since I've come back! It's been strange to return to my house, and to see so clearly that it is not my home--it's just another place, and one which is barely familiar, at that. But it's a good place, a kind shelter, and I'm looking forward once again to growing new life in the space outside.

Inside, there's still much work to do. I still have no couch upon which to rest, no table at which to share food, no piano to play. There is cleaning and scrubbing and sanding and painting to do, and at some point I'm going to have to challenge and conquer the mighty Charybdis... For now, though, I hope to sleep long hours and spend a lot more time in the sauna. I'll sweat out what I can. It's good to be back.

Oh, Mighty Charybdis!

Click.

And just like that, I was locked out of my house.

There's a certain sort of euphoric lucidity that comes hand in hand with the ripping consciousness of change, while being repeatedly sucker-punched by the benevolent and all-forgiving universe. Life's been "good" to me lately, in the sense that whatever has not killed me thus far has finally made me strong enough to withstand the hideous beauty that's inescapably reflected in the thousand shards of my diamond-cut soul which now litter my inner sanctuary. Honest to god, I had no idea what a total shithole of a person I've become. So now it's my conscience versus the sexist joke, my will alone that shields me from the slings and arrows, my own unjustifiable faith against all evidence. Have I really been so unloving?

These demons I've harbored take bites of me as I set them free. Past skin and nerves, blood cold, I'm down to bone. To bedrock. Meanwhile, I'm showered with blessings, with freedom, with the bitter sarcasm of the universe spoken through what might easily have been kind and loving words from acquaintances and friends. I am not the butt of this joke, I'm just the audience who doesn't get it, the offended listener who laughs anyway. Hear no evil? Speak no evil? Do I really say such things? Could I go back to that faraway land where I don't understand what's being said?

Charybdis. My little brother thus christened the toilet in my new place, which at every mundane flush swirls into such a raging vortex that it threatens the entire house with flooding, until finally after what seems like hours it rushes down the drain, drowning the sound of my futile curses. I'm in it now, surrounded by my own floating shit. I am the sea-monster, cursed, pulling toward certain...wetness?...any who stray too close. Careful, though--there's another on the other side of this passage who's just the same.

Some Buddhists might suggest that what we experience is "merely" a reflection of how one feels about oneself. Rather simplistic. Is oneself me, or you? So how could I possibly feel that way about you? Am I really such an asshole?

Well, anyway. It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, all bright blue sky and sunshine. I've got my spare keys back and I'm going for a walk, on my own.

Domo Arigato, Mme. Margato

Well kids, I made it home a couple days ago and I think I just got over myself sometime this morning. I've come a long way these past two weeks, although I'm still awaking to the doorways and arches of Paris, until my vision tells me where I am now.

I'm working through the trip and the photos, both of which contain moments of wondrous beauty and godawful bullshit. Sadly, my computer doesn't have the necessary resources to deal with my images (it has trouble even typing) so it may be a while before anything comes to light.

I came home with a few things: One earring lost. My favorite sweater shrunk to an impossible size. A hat intended for someone half my age. Part of a bag of coffee. A phone number I sort of wish I didn't have. Renewed confidence. Shattered self-esteem. A void where my heart used to rest. Love of blood sausage. Faith in possibility. A new song. Absence of overpowering regret. The texture of pastels, of the filthy & turgid Seine, of rooftops from the terrace, of soft cheeses, of bodies carved from stone and wine on my tongue. The smell of the street in the morning. A pair of tubas playing "It's Now or Never".

Wow, that makes it sound almost romantic. How cute.

Favorite things about Paris include how much it didn't stink, how walkable it is, how rideable, tiny cars, not understanding the language, a young boy trying the back door at just the wrong moment and yelling MaaammaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaan! one afternoon when I passed from scowl to smile, an apartment most comfortable, that fleeting sense of freedom, flying there and back, sleeping for twelve hours straight, getting my suitcase back after three days of calls and waiting and finally with the assistance of Mme. Margato who phoned to explain in zero Anglais to my unspeakable French, bottomless bowls of chocolate mousse, all those amazing things in the science museum, superhuman detail of Tibetan paintings, that little girl with the two baby doll strollers and knockout sunglasses, the lady and the unicorn, windows and doors, the revelation of Degas pastels and Van Goghs and others, pairs of bodies shaped from a single stone, wrinkled skin in marble, mossy graves and real live gravediggers, rehearsal at the opera, Orion from the balcony, thinking of nothing.

That's all I have for tonight. More another day.

P.S.

I wanted just to say goodbye, thank you, my love to you (if you are reading, this means you!)... I wish you peace. I hope to return with joie and photos.

je ne sais quoi

It's been a difficult week. I'm in an emotional stew which has been by turns a roiling cauldron of fury, a thick mess of humility, a thin taste of hopelessness, a burnt soup of sorrow, a bubbling broth of joy, a spilled puddle of heartbreak, a simmering pot of rage, a lumpy gravy of regret, a sticky porridge of self-loathing, a creamy pudding of hope, a spicy curry of possibility, a black potion of doubt, a sweet brew of transcendence, the bitter medicine of shame, spoiled leftovers of life. (Into the compost, mix with shit...)

Work has taken its toll on my spirit, especially of late. Yesterday I realized that during the entire past year I did not have a stretch of more than three workdays off. Of those, one was a vacation with family, split in two locations. One was two days off after a weekend, also split in two locations, in which I was taken down by serious illness. The other was the two days I took off to move out. It's been a long time since I had anything close to resembling a "vacation", and it's run me down. I'm stretched, tired. I'm not excited about going to Paris, I have to go. I have to leave here, be away from here, have something else for a while, anything else. Paris seems a bit much right now, but there it is, all I've got. I have cute new jeans, snacks, books and my camera, among the many things I'm packing up tonight. What I will not carry with me on this trip is any peace of mind about my life, my relationships, my future, my self. I am not concerned about getting lost, or not knowing where I am. I am worried about not knowing who I am. I'm afraid of being my own and my only companion. I wanted to leave for this trip with an open mind and an open heart, in peace. As it is, I'm just... leaving. And I already don't want to come back.

I have much to do tonight, little hope of getting any rest before I go. There's so much I've wanted to write down these past few days, to leave behind, and now it seems I'll have to take it all with me. Maybe I'll get lucky, lose some baggage on the way home. Au revoir.

it's Saturday

Coffee today, the first cup I've actually brewed here. With sweet vanilla soy, alongside a good long phone conversation with a friend from close to home, it all but washed away the bitter taste of job that was still stuck in my teeth from yesterday. Breakfast could not have been more satisfying or delicious, a frittata of browned onion, sliced potato and sauteed kale from last year's harvest; a few cloves of garlic, probably from Mexico; lovely orange-yolked eggs from my caller's farm; a bit of tasty goat cheese from Wisconsin and a little leftover cube of sheep feta from France, for good measure; accompanied by a chunk of Rustica's Levain, smeared with butter from Hope Creamery. Yum, double yum.

**

Talking this morning was a reminder that this blog used to be about a something, while now, it seems, it's all about me... It's true that I lost focus on the garden last year, as my energy began to move away from earth and toward water, and that muddied things a little. I'm a little reluctant to admit it, but I guess it's also true that I lost my conviction, lost my passion, lost the heart of what I thought I was working toward. I can't really say I'm looking forward to gardening this year, much as I wish I could. I feel as though my work in the coming season will be to dig up my own bones and grow something from them, a garden that will thrive on sorrow, watered with tears. This is work I know I must do, and no doubt the gardens will be living and beautiful, nonetheless. It's my intent to try to write about that here, to keep a record of how things grow. We'll see.

**

Now I return to the task at hand, my crash-course in French... I've made little progress today--on anything, really. The truth is that I'm not feeling inspired to make many plans, except about where to find food, and after the way the past week has gone I'd just like to hop on a plane and get the hell out of here. I can walk around a city and not talk to people, with abandon. I can spend a whole afternoon working to achieve one respectable photo and I'm willing to try eating just about anything. I will gladly wander markets and ask: Qu'est-ce que c'est? Vouz parlais Anglais? Ou sont Jacque Cousteau? So I think I'm pretty much ready to go. Just need to get packed.

fed up

It tried to follow me home yesterday, but I gave it the slip, taking a quick right turn into the shelter of a familiar neighborhood. Close one. I enjoyed a peaceful evening, slept straight through the night, woke more refreshed than I've been in days and then...there it was again this morning, scratching at my door like a hungry animal: my job.

Friday evening it took hold of me as a fury, a rolling boil, roiling with all the flotsam of this urban life: caged trees, entire buildings, acres of glass and concrete, buoyed by rushing bubbles of conversation burst by dull ideas and punctured by cutting words. Not suddenly; slowly, surely I became outraged at what I am asked to do, to be there, and to not be, at how I have turned myself into a numbered employee, at what I have willingly traded for this pox-ridden blanket. I wonder how many of us exist so, commuting between our lives and our jobs every morning, every night, checking our selves at the door to get through security.

I may be a fool, but I'm not an idiot. I am well aware that I've got a Very Good Job, in the small picture: I must eat and pay the bills; if I had a family I might be supporting them (or more likely, on my salary, I would not...); I don't work at a plastic factory in China the size of a gazillion football fields. But in the big picture none of this makes a shred of sense. People are using up everything there is on this planet, and fast. It's not just about peak oil, dwindling energy sources, the near impossibility of a zero-sum solution. They have poisoned our wells and drenched the soil in "weed" killers, pharmaceuticals and agents of biological warfare. In some places, like here in the Midwest, we've noticed a few amphibians with a leg or two out of place; in other places, entire populations are being slowly, but surely devastated.

So what does that have to do with my job? Well, for one, where I work our business is the Root of All Evil. I don't think I need to explain what money has to do with capitalism, what capitalism has to do with exploitation of "resources" (also known as human beings, animals, plants, land, water, minerals, air, space and everything else that exists), what resource exploitation has to do with war, or what war does to life. And I don't think it should be necessary to explain what life has to do with food and water, but apparently there are a lot of people out there who really don't know. They don't know that potatoes grow in the ground, or that milk comes not from a carton but from animals' mammary glands, that the water they drink and flush down their toilets has been recycled for millennia, or that every single breath they draw is thanks to someone, a real live person, who raised from seed a living being (the resurrection) to give us sustenance (our daily bread). And these seeds are grown in soil, water and sunlight. Sunlight we still have quite a lot of, maybe more than we know what to do with. Soil and water, however, are becoming more and more scarce. And as they do, the cost of living--of food--will continue to rise. In America we spend proportionally less on food than does most of the world, thanks to low-quality calories subsidized by our federal government, the labor of immigrants, and destructive farming practices. How long can this possibly continue? How will I be able to feed my family, when food prices here have doubled?

So, back to my job, my day-to-day, where I am encouraged to adopt an "attitude of gratitude" toward a system which is in the big picture killing the planet and in the small picture killing my spirit, as if life were a picture-in-picture television screen and not a holistic experience of macro and micro and meta, simultaneously... And now this job follows me home and crawls into my bed, keeping me awake at night, and then wants to hang around all weekend, stinking up the place with its foul breath and crude jokes? No, hell no, this will not do. But how exactly do I show it the door, when it's the one paying my mortgage?

Sooner or later this is going to end, and there won't be any paycheck to take to the store. This is why we grow our own.