Today Was A Good Day


It was my last day of French class, but not, I think my last French class.

I made the decision to do my best to stay put, to be here, to allow the Universe to work its magic without me getting into it and muddling around.

Put it out there.

Take one step toward the Universe and it will take one thousand toward you.


Have faith.

I was indescribably happy today for absolutely not apparent reason.

It could have been one of many things.

Listening to the rain fall in the courtyard while drinking my morning cafe au lait in Paris while writing my morning pages.

It could be that this cold has almost met its match and I think, despite it having a claw or two still in me, is nearly gone.

It could be that it is Friday and the end of the week means the end of the week.

I could be any number of things, I did not care, I do not care now as I am typing.  I am indescribably happy.

Anything could happen.


How amazing.

I also noodled about making some birthday plans.  For which I am excited.  Coffee with Wilmien, lunch with Natasha, the Salvador Dali exhibit at the Centre de Pompidou, a walk through Paris, a tattoo at Abraxas on Rue St. Merrie in the Marais (a gift from my room-mate, I can’t afford a tattoo in Paris, holy bats are they expensive), a ride on the ferris wheel at Place de la Concorde, and a shellfish dinner.

Not a bad plan,eh?

And actually all well within my price point.

Ah, today, despite not having revenue coming in I felt inundated with hope and faith and I just kept taking actions and putting it out, I have no idea where the job is going to come from or what it will be, but it is coming, I can smell it like chestnuts roasting over hot coals in the courtyard of the Musee de Louvre.

I also had a really amazing moment with Corinne at the Lounge Lizard and something within me shifted, some thing within me stirred, that quiet voice deep down, soothing, loving, ever present, rose up and I realized I was sitting in a cafe with a woman I just met a scant six weeks ago talking about all things important in my life over a hot cafe creme in Paris.

In Paris.

Hey, I made it.


My whole body just relaxed a little bit.  A deep resounding settling in my skin.  I sipped  my creme, we read some words, I felt like I was being re-born again and getting to see that I was always being carried forward, just like I am being carried forward right now.

I also had the most disconcerting moment of deja vu I have had in years in French class.

I count deja vu as  sign.  Something momentous is about to happen.  Something miraculous.


I cannot tell you how stupendous it was.

I looked out the windows at the rain clouds, I looked at my teacher’s mouth forming French words, I smelled a perfume I had not smelled in years, I cannot say what it was, but it was so potent I nearly fell from my chair.

I have already been here.

That was what went through my mind, I have lived this moment, and I am living it again.  The sensation, illusive, yet tangible swept over me, and I stopped listening to the lecture and wrote a poem.

Poems have been falling out of the sky for me.  I wrote two sonnets this week.


I have written five since being here.


I am quite happy to be writing sonnets.  Sometimes, despite calling myself a poet far before I called myself any other kind of writer, I would think that I had used up all my poetry, that there was nothing left.  I had a few years when I did not write a one.  All the while writing my blog,  In fact, I got worried that the blogging was becoming the only literary coin I had to spend.

It is apparently not so.

I am grateful to have more poems in me.


Fin de la Semaine (End of the Week)

Over come with deja vu in French class

conjugating verbs.  Warm breath fogs

cool windows, outside it rains, solace

between the drops, warmth follows, dogs

me as I wrestle with my infinity

scarf.  Smells assault me, suddenly

far away memories storm my divinity.

If only I could smoke crack lady

like, but no, ca va?  C’est n’exite pas.

Mais, I can love un-lady like as well.

I will dash between the drops

fall into puddles of salt splash hell,

yet arise, phoenix like, again, reinvent

me in your porcelain blue eye inward bent.


Fin (end)


The nice thing about writing poems is that they are just for me.  They tend to be romantic, in the nature of that genre, and they are more real for me than the history or the stories I tell to myself.

The poem above may make no sense to anyone, but I know, without a doubt in my mind that anytime I read those words I will be transported to that moment in the classroom.

I will feel my scarf around my neck, see the condensation of warm air on the windows, smell the perfume, hear the verb viendre being conjugated by someone two rows behind me and be transported into a revery of another place, layers upon layers of time.

The ever-present now in all its godlike glory unfolds leaving me rapt and awed when coming out of the Metro I look up and see Hotel de Ville lit and sparkling with mad disco lights.



I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

I believe I will stop struggling now.



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