Neither Here Nor There


This is the last push.

The last bit of time.

The last night at 36 Rue Bellefond.

Tomorrow the check out happens at 4pm.

I still have yet to break down my bicycle, although I did get out and get one last ride on my bike.  The room-mate and I went for a cruise along the canal.



I lost him on the way back.

I went faster than I thought, once you set a rhythm on a fixed gear it is difficult to slow down, and I had found the sweet spot.

I had also taken the wrong turn without realizing it until it was too late.

It would not be me in Paris without one last day of getting lost.

My quickie bike ride turned into a two-hour excursion.

By the time I got back to the house I was a bit uncertain as to which way to go next.  I had a coffee date with a friend, but she had to cancel.  I ran up to her place and dropped off her book that I had borrowed for the Rome trip, got in a good solid hug and promises to stay in touch.

That is one thing, as I sit here typing furiously away at quarter past midnight, the number of people who said to me, “see you soon,” and really meant it.

I have no idea when I will see my former French classmate from South Africa, but we felt certain that we would indeed see each other, sooner rather than later.

So too, my darling friend Mario who took me out for a late night coffee–helps to fuel the late night blogging–and instead of going straight to the Invalides station, we ended up walking along the Seine to Pont Neuf.

I can see his beautiful face smiling at me as the line 7 train headed off in the opposite direction I was going.  We waved and smiled and blew kisses and I teared up.

“This is not goodbye and don’t look back,” he said, “with any kind of shame or remorse, you came, you lived your dream, you have more dreams.”

I have more dreams.

Things do feel like they are moving in some sort of new and magical direction.




Actually, it feels so right that I am not second guessing it.  Ride the horse the direction it’s running, and hang the fuck on because it’s about to get interesting.

“I feel something enormous is about to happen,” I said to John Ater last night.

“Uh, yes, like you’re flying to California after living in Paris for six months, kind of big.”

“Fuck you.” I said and laughed.

Yes, exactly.

I am.

Other things are happening.

Two turn downs from agencies to represent me, not a worry at all about that, and what I found intriguing about the one that just popped up into my inbox was a little personal note from the assistant to the agent.

The agent never got the query, her assistant went through the e-mail, this often happens at the bigger houses, and she said, nope not a match, however, here’s some contact info for another agency in New York and a phone number.

That blew me away.

That means she read the query, she was intrigued, she thinks there is something worthwhile to the work–just that the agent she works for is not a fit.

But a fit is out there.

I started writing that into my affirmations that I do in the morning as part of my daily journal writing–I have an amazing literary agent that advocates for me.

I am a brilliant, prolific, well paid, published author.

The brilliant part is a matter of perspective.

The prolific, I think I have that covered.

“I don’t think that is going to fit in your suitcase,” he said to me today as I was kneeling on my luggage struggling with the zipper.  “You may want to carry that on the plane.”

“Nope, it’s going to fit just fine,” I said applying a little more pressure to the top and sliding the zipper home.

An extra souvenir?


An extra pair of shoes?


Five notebooks?

Uh, yeah.

That is what I was squashing down into the suitcase, five notebooks full of writings since I have been here, plus the addition of two manuscripts that my room-mate brought back from San Francisco in February, and yes, I have another manuscript in my messenger bag and a full notebook of morning pages, six sheets shy of full, that I have been doing my current writing in.

What did you bring back from Paris?

A lot of words.

The magical reality of my life.

The promise of more will be revealed.

The astounding realization that I have lived in Paris for six months.


All the museums I have went to, all the boulevards I have strolled down, all the streets that I have gotten lost on, the trains I have travelled, the stairs I have climbed, the endless views of statuary and beauty and meanders through parks.

The snow on the hills of Sacre Couer.

The light that falls on the Seine at night, glistening like copper coins thrown on black oil capped waves, the slip of Batobuses that go by with their bright lights and multitude of languages booming out over the water exhorting tourists from German, Japan, Spain, and all points West to the alluring sights along the banks of the river.

The wonderful, astounding, courageous, generous, kind, and loving people who I have met and shared my life with here.

Six months is not too early to fall in love.

Six months is just enough time to see how much love I have, both here and there.

I am not inbetween.

I am exactly  where I am supposed to be.

Living in and from my heart.

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