two things it is not easy to be at the same time

inconsolable and proud


holy mother of difficult letters to write.
i found a beautiful book yesterday, jules verne's de la terre à la lune. hardcover, illustrated. perfect. the bookseller on my street smokes constantly his pipe, stews in the curls of smoke that crown him and dissipate, fickle dream of monarchy constantly vanishing. the waiter from next door has started to say hi to me on the street because we're neighbors, so has the woman who owns the bric-a-brac shop on the corner.
it was a cold day. hanna mother and i had lunch at le pot au pied on rue mouffetard, we ordered coffee and dessert afterwards. walked through the jardin de plants and the jardin de luxembourg. the trees are leafless. saint sulpice has finally shed its scaffoldings and stands like the cathedral or castle from a fairy tale over the neighborhood. at night, phantoms dance in the open towers, broad-chested princes with wolf heads and beady-eyed peacock women, ghosts and long-dead landed gentry, bloodied and dashing war heroes of other epochs, martyred virgins almost in tears for eternity.
put mother on a bus to the airport, the bus driver was a bit rude. you can't have everything. put in a few hours of work on campus before calling it a day and roasting some romanesco in the apartment. wine and cheese, it's amazing how my diet doesn't even stutter between california and paris anymore. now is the time you eat vegetables, now is the time you eat cheese and potatoes. okay.
my desire to define myself against the world and my desire to sweep the dishes off the table are one and the same. my desire to go back to bed and try again after the morning gets tricky is my child heart needing to be coddled and hating to be coddled. i want to say: the things i can't fix by myself are all terrible cousins. they are incestuously lounging in me, i can't get them out, i can't deal with them alone, i need things i won't ask for,

seven pages in the trash of not saying what i want to say. maybe it is best that this be a short letter. everything i have to say i want to say to your face, i want to say. but i didn't and now i can't, so there you go. left foot in the stirrup, get your ass up there, right leg over, whew, okay, yes we're pretty high up here, work your fingers into the mane, yes like that, now a little kick to the flank...

WELL IM JUST GOING TO FUCKING HAVE TO FORCE SOME THINGS, DONT TALK TO ME LIKE IM GOING TO ZEN THIS ONE OUT, IM NOT LIKE THAT. YOU THINK I REALLY WANT TO HAVE SKELETONS IN MY CLOSET? IS THAT REALLY AN OPTION IN YOUR BOOK? THROW THAT BOOK AWAY, I HATE THAT BOOK. I WILL BE GODDAMNED IF maybe i need to wait a minute before i write this letter. i do not want to be a minute waiter, i want to be a stamp-licker and writer and sender. i want to have an organized head on my shoulders, but that's not what i am, so what am i made for?

i'm moving to new jersey and writing bumper stickers
i'm splitting for colorado and leading mule tours
i'm selling my soul for a brand new car
i'm buying up stock for a brighter future in plastics


my neighbors must have the worst sex, they sound like sneakers in the dryer. maybe it's great. what the hell would i know.

i'm reading a book by assia djebar. it is about the silent language of women, it is about history. it's a bloody book, there is war and deceit, there is treachery and torture, there is love and sand and broken bones. and at the end you are forced to choose, you have to decide, if you haven't already, how you feel about living in the same world as she does, seeing as you don't have the choice.