Hello there, my Lovelies. Here we find another entry in the OMG-must-write-because-I-told-the-world-I-would category. My editing consisted of deleting stuff (devilishly elegant, I know…).
You’ll notice this piece meanders though my thoughts, and quite like an old river, it has no real direction. But what it does, I figure, is provide a window into who I am (or who I was in the moment of writing this). You might also notice my perpetual Paris theme.
Lovers & Undisciplined Thought
Could we really live in Paris, for a time, anyway? Neither of us speak French. This would quickly turn from a romantic admiration of the sound of the language to frustration and annoyance. Plus, of course, the logistics of impeded communication in getting things accomplished. Like the wi-fi set up in your ancient petite apartment, for example. Or transferring money at a bank. But surely a few months of proper study and practice of French in advance would lessen the acidity of such a pickle.
I wonder what a second language would do to (for?) my writing? As an optimist, I imagine it would only enrich and add to the depth and breadth of my expression. But, a small, concerned part of me wonders if it wouldn’t just confuse the hell out of me and cause my often frivolous scribbles to become even more incoherent… That’s the same small part (but at times rather vocal and with surprising volume) of me that claims this whole exercise—the very idea—of even considering myself to be a writer is absolutely stupid, unrealistic and far-fetched, and really, just plain irresponsible. Then other days I’m perfectly happy—content even—to dwell in my world of possibilities and the delight of the present moment where, I’ve realized, it’s impossible for worry or fear to exist.
I hear imaginary critics scold me and tell me to get back to reality—get to work—find a real job, do something for God’s sake! And yet the bigger part of me (or is it the childish, lazy part?) is incontestably convinced I’m not meant for these ‘common’ modern jobs as we know them today. I can see, rather clearly, that the era of ‘career’ is slipping away… crumbling, perhaps, is the more accurate adjective.
The elite are not cool with this crumble action, for it’s the very foundation upon which their unchecked fortunes are built. Were there no ‘career hungry’ peons vying for advancement it would mean that ‘progress’ (as they like to call it) would grind to a halt and no more fortunes could be made off the backs of poor saps who are either without a will strong enough to say no, or an ego who won’t let them because all it wants is to please survive.
I fit into none of these insufferable categories. Instead, I am a new breed. Quite out of control, they must think. I’m fine with this sometimes accurate assumption. I like the fringe, or, as I prefer to call it: the leading edge of the bell curve. Scientifically, I do believe this bell curve thing is actually true, not merely a romantic writer’s embellishment as tends to leak out of my pen now and then. Is it streaming writing when you can’t remember what your point was when you began? Or is it just absent-minded, undisciplined thought? Either way, I enjoy it.
Now, about the word callous. I don’t know what it means other than it’s not particularly desirable, probably especially not in a lover or a father. Or a boss. Happily I have no boss, my father also doesn’t know the meaning of the word and my lover would act callous if I asked him to. Can a husband be a lover?
It must be an ‘act’ if so… a role. This is obvious since one cannot be both a lover and a husband in the same moment. Sure, in the same evening it’s perfectly plausible… you go for drinks with your lover, you tell him you want to take him home and do what you will, biting at his ear during the car ride… and then it’s your husband who safely puts you to bed, helping take out your contacts, when you arrive home just as that last drink hits your bloodstream and you both realize, it ain’t gonna happen… and you pass out minutes later. But…a triumphant effort no less! To be commended.
I love husbands. And lovers. Nah. I love having a husband. And keeping a lover. He happens to be the same guy. And knowing that through the magic of out-of-context quoting, at some point in the future that statement will be entirely misconstrued, and people will say it like ‘Let them eat cake’ was a good thing. Fools.
Now… to bed, at the leading edge of the bell curve.
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