Melancholy Moll

by

Rainy.

Cold.

Paris.

At least I have gotten back inside and am now armed with a hot cup of tea and some slippers.

It is a little too easy to be sad in Paris when it is cold and rainy, I came back to the apartment today mid-afternoon, wrong socks on, wrong shoes on, no umbrella.

I got stuck inside.

Not the worst thing that could happen, truly, not, it does, make for a very simple kind of day.  One in which I did my French homework early.

I made a collage for French class, I am still chuckling over it now.

An admission, I enjoyed doing it.

In fact, I have started putting things up on the wall in my little corner nook of the apartment.  I figure, I don’t really have a window to look out unto anything I may as well put up pictures that arrest my eye and I find joy in.

Despite keeping my spending very small, I have a few things, an ornament or two that I have out to keep me and my senses company.  I am a good little nester.  I have my notebooks, a book on Hemingway, one Henry Miller, a John Fowler, The Magus, and Will Self’s new one, Umbrella.

I have one beautiful notebook, already filled, stuffed, crammed with words, scraps of Paris, bits of my shredded heart, a centime or two for la bonne chance,  bound on top of the little wardrobe at the foot of my bed.

I have a bunny.

Yes, I went back and bought it.

Bunny

Bunny 

I had been given a few Euro to be spent frivolously and I knew the minute I got it, I knew I was going to go rescue the bunny.

He was mine.

I bought him on Sunday.

Free day at the Louvre?

I tried a few times to pull the bunny out of the sack I was carrying him around in and place him just so next to a master painting or sculpture, but I never got the chance.

I did not have the bravery to just bust it out.  I was damn tempted to, however.

Maybe next time.

I like my bunny.  I have put a few secret notes in the bunny, a few thoughts, a few things to let go of.  The bunny is a bank.  I am using him as a wonder and awe bank.

I left my other one back in San Francisco and I needed another bank.

Bad.

I put a note in the bunny last night, and lo, an answer.

Not the answer I was expecting, but yes an answer.

A job as well.

Nanny.

Today, today, I am fine with it.  Something passed, some thing eased.  Perhaps it was speaking to the mother on the phone and hearing the baby in the back ground.

“She is mine,”  my heart-felt a pull.  I knew it was a girl, I knew I would be getting to know her and I will perhaps have a little gig to help fill the fast emptying coffers.

I will be talking more to mom tomorrow and we will iron out the details.  Basically she was just looking for someone to cover this Saturday, she put up an S.O.S on an English-speaking mom’s board and the information was forwarded to me by the person who had suggested I try my hand at babysitting to get extra money.

“I don’t want to babysit,” the petulant 15-year-old in me said, shoving out her lower lip.

Yes, that’s nice dear, however, you do want to eat right?

Mmmhhmm.

That is what I thought.

I am not my job I am not my job I am not my job I am not my job I am not my job.

I am a writer.

I am an artist.

I am a lover.

I am a poet.

I am strong and stupid and still learning, and so be it.

I am going to nanny, maybe part-time, maybe full-time, maybe not for long.  I do not have to know right now.  I do not.

All I have to know is that I am taken care of.  And I am writing.  And I am writing.

I started another short story today.

I have not flushed it all out into a true first draft, I just jotted down a few notes, but had I the time this afternoon before heading out the door to French class, I would have probably gotten a full draft off.

I want it to sit and percolate a little longer, but it is there, another story is there–another one for the “Atrocious Alphabet” series.

I decided 36 Rue Bellefond will be a chap book of poems that I have been writing since I have gotten here.  Not a lot at the moment.  But there will be more, I always have another poem or two tucked up my sleeves, in my full heart there swim many.

I stand upon a mountain of dreams and despite the flood of anxiety that laps the shore  at the foot of the mountain, there is a rescue right in front of me, it just never looks like how I want it to look.

I heard tonight something I have never heard before, but it smacked of something John Ater would have said to me, in fact, I shed a few tears when it was read, “make a decision and stick to it.”

Aw.

Fuck.

Me.

I made the decision to move to Paris and I am sticking to it.

Despite being uncertain how that will play out, I am sticking to it.  Every time I turn around with some doubt, some fear, some anxiety, something opens up, a little movement.

A bunny rabbit in a store winks at me, bring me home it whispers.

A poster on a street pole that wants to be hung over my bed.

Kandinsky’s Accent on Rose withers my heart and rebuilds it for me in less than the five minutes I stand transfixed in front of it.

The sleek, oily waves of the Seine at night suddenly a shower of gold and silver points as the hour turns and the Eiffel Tower sprays its shatter of lights upon the city.

A man, tonight walking home in front of me up Rue Cadet singing opera.

WELL.

Really well.

Yes, it is cold, yes, it is wet, yes sometimes, a lot, it is hard to get out the door and go–but go I do, go forward, go into, go.

Act.

Go.

You never know what you will find or what will find you.

In Paris.

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One Response to “Melancholy Moll”

  1. Shannon Says:

    If it makes you feel better, it’s been cold and raining in San Francisco for days! xoxo

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