BANG

by

Fuck me.

That hurt.

It also effectively cut short me doing anything other than lounging around the rest of the day.  I gave myself a little sabbatical, here on the sabbath.

I went out and did my normal Sunday morning routine out to the 7th.

I had coffee with a darling gal after.

Then I came back to the house to have a late lunch around three this afternoon.

A cup of tea, a sliced up persimmon, and an e-mail query for agency.

I also followed up on a job lead, for babysitting, and I e-mailed the Creative Writing Director at the American University in Paris.  My friend had suggested he may be someone to contact, do some fact-finding and fact gathering.

I did express to her I had no money for tuition and she said it was like magic how things happen with him, so maybe, and why not throw it out there to the Universe.

She also does not want me to go.

She and I as well.

I do not know what will happen, but it does seem more and more likely that a return trip to the states is happening.  Something is going to happen, I can only be in this apartment until the end of May.

We talked about the artist residency I applied for, that is not until July and August, however, what would I do for May and June?

I tell myself, as I told her, that if I am supposed to be here, it will be made very obvious.

If I am not, it will be made very obvious as well.

I noticed myself not wanting to do any sort of searching for work today, not wanting to reach out, not wanting to go out, wanting to do some isolating, in effect.

That certainly is not going to turn the trick.

So, after I had sent out an e-mail to the director and sent out an e-mail to a literary agent, I decided I would pop over  to the pool and go for a swim.  Vacance (vacation) for the pool was over and it had re-opened.  I grabbed my gear and went over to the pool, which for a Sunday was not too busy, and got in a nice swim.

Returning to the house I figured I would take a shower and head over to the cafe and do some writing and maybe a little reading.

I threw my wet things in the laundry, hit the shower, and hit my leg, hard.

HARD.

I slipped getting into the tub, it’s a much higher lip than most tubs, I caught myself going down, but I smashed down on my leg.  Instantaneously a welt rose up.  I actually double banged it, I hit hard the first time, caught myself and hit it again a little higher up on the shin.

I feel lucky I did not break my leg.

I am flat serious, the welt is a good inch raised and ugly.

Ugly.

Sometimes the Universe tells me to slow down.

Sometimes I actually listen.

I decided then and there to slow down.

I took a seriously hot, leisurely shower, deep conditioned the hair, shaved, all the jazz.

I pulled on my Hello Kitty pjs and said, spa day here I come.

Manicure, pedicure, deep condition lotion on my feet, hot tea, and a book.

I am currently reading Irvine Welsh’s “Skag Boys”.

Farking amaze baws.

So good.

It is the prequel to “Trainspotting”.

I sat and read and let myself just be still.

I had gone to the pool with a head full of questions and should I do this or should I do that and what do I do next and do I keep trying to stay here and how is it all going to work out?

It took me about 400 yards of swimming for the voice to literally get drowned out.

I also attribute that to getting water in my ear.

What is worse than getting water in an ear?

Getting it in both ears.

Fahk.

Shaking the head to get it out of the left side, while the right side just gets it knocked in further.  I wonder if that is how I might have lost my balance, I was trying to get the water out of my ear.

Does not matter.

Just grateful that I did not hurt myself worse.

The swimming took my out of my head and the hurt leg took me out of my head and then, I thought, you know, when was the last time you let yourself have a little Sunday afternoon girl day?

It’s been a while.

Waxed, plucked, shaved, lotion, groom, then I let myself get all snuggly in my pjs, soft and cozy.

I made a cup of tea and lost myself in Welsh landia.

Gah.

He is a fucking fantastic writer.

The tits.

Some one, from Ireland, asked me, how in the hell I could read his work.

I remember the first time I tried to read Welsh and it was really hard, I think I was reading “Porno” or “E” I don’t think it was “Trainspotting”  probably “Porno” I remember the jacket of the book, and at first it was just pure gibberish, another language entirely.

I put down the book in frustration, then a little while later picked it up again as I had nothing else around to read.  I do not know why it occurred to me to read it out loud, but saying the words out loud was the key to the magic.

I could hear the vernacular.

I was suddenly in Scotland, Leith.

I heard it.

I have never had a problem since.

I got in a good hour and a half of solid relaxed no distraction reading.

What a gift to give to myself.

This experience here in Paris, too a gift, and one that I wish I knew which way it was going to go.  Whether I stay or go.  Now or then, come back, or go elsewhere.

“It took me four tries to get it together to make it here,” he said to me this morning, as I was putting away the coffee supplies and wiping up the spills from the table in the basement.

“Four times,” he repeated, “it’ll happen for you, if it’s supposed to, and you never know how or why, you just ask for clear-cut directions and trust you are being taken care of.”

He gave me a big hug, “I am rootin’ for ya.”

Me too.

I don’t believe I was brought all this way to be dropped.

Fact is, I never have been.

I have always been carried, even when I fall.

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