Another Blog


With too many photos.

I realized yesterday, perhaps another day, but yesterday for certain.

That when I have photographs in my blog posts they do not get posted the same to my social media pages, Twitter and Facebook, like they typically do.

I have actually seen a decrease in readership since posting the blogs with photos.

But.

Fuck.

I can’t help it.

I take a lot of photographs and I don’t really care what social media has to say or not say or whether or not I have a bigger audience.

Nope.

I continue to just be happy writing for myself.

About myself.

Because.

You know.

It’s all about me.

Ha.

Are you there God?

It’s me Carmen.

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This is a photo my friend took of me today at the Palais de Tokyo at the John Giorno exhibit.

Oh.

My.

God.

I love this artist.

I had such a good time going through the exhibit.

So, so, so god damn good.

I love art.

I repeat.

I fucking love art.

Here are some more shots from the exhibit:

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It’s true.  I do.

And.

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And also this:

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This too:

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All the fuck over it.

Yes.

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Absolutely.

The show was right the fuck on and I enjoyed every little morsel of it.

Of all the photographs I took, though, this next one might be my favorite, just from the perspective of the light, the framing, and the subject matter.

I can’t quite explain it, but man, I was happy when I made the capture and even happier when I downloaded it to my computer, it stood out in my eyes.

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Just something about it that made me happy.

That might be the best definition of art for me.

Just something about it that makes me happy.

So lucky to have so much art in my life, I’m like a glutton for it right now, bring mama more, let me roll around in it, slather it on my skin, dip my heart into it, rub it on my soul, and wash it over my ethereal and oh so corporeal body.

Yum.

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Art and poetry.

Which is art.

The longing heart.

Oh.

Such much that.

My longing heart had so much love today, it was brimming and overflowed many times washing down my face with the rain.

“Are you crying?  Or is that the rain.”  My friend asked as we were caught in a tiny spat of rain on the way to the American Cathedral to meet with friends.

“Rain.” I said emphatically.

My friend looked at me with a cocked head and a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, both, yes, I’m crying.”

And that happened all day and I don’t apologize for those tears, they well up, they pass, I am sad, I am in Paris and then, I am fine, happy, replete, full and loved again.

Washed over and over with memories and heart ache and a new love and lightness too.

So many layers of love.

Here’s one that brought tears to my eyes.

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Sacre Couer on Christmas Eve.

We went to the church, I was hoping we would be able to eat at the cafe in my old neighborhood on Rue Bellefond, but they were already closed for the holiday.

Instead we walked up the hill and rode the funiclare to the top and climbed the last steps.

I went in, holy, silent, reverent, and lost all at the same time.

I lit a candle for my grandmother who passed on Christmas Eve ten years, no elven years ago and knelt down and said the Our Father.

I am not a Catholic, but it runs deep in my family and it felt appropriate and then I found myself saying all my prayers, all the ones that I know, all the ones in my heart, asking to surrender everything I think I know about myself and to let go and love and be loved and to move on and move forward and surrender again.

And again and again.

And again.

I cried my little heart out to the point where I had snot running down my face too.

So unexpected.

These strong emotions.

But good to let them out.

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Pensive, sad, soft, surrendered.

I feel a lot different now.

Looking at roses my friend gave me for Christmas and a sweet hug.

Knowing that the Pompidou is open tomorrow, on Christmas!

What a lovely gift.

And.

The gift of being here that I wasn’t expecting, the experiences I wasn’t expecting, the grounding and lifting of my heart toward the heavens and the laughter the falls out of my mouth sometimes, too, when I least expect it.

I am never going to be French.

No matter how good my French ever should become.

I laugh too loud.

I cry to hard.

And.

All of that.

Is just alright with me.

Because.

I know love.

I know it so very.

Very.

Well.

Merry Christmas from Paris.

Joyeux Noel.

 

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