Februarian

I awoke this morning at 4:30 to catch the 8:20 flight to Barcelona from Paris. At 5:15 sitting in the rank, half-opened Paris Metro station a drunken man, pulling two plaid-patterned carts and wine-sodden breath sidled up near my face to peer over me as I read Eileen Myles' The Importance of Being Iceland. A lesbian, poetess with a Getrude Stein-y honest and observant reverance to life, Myles travelogue inspires my uncertain direction and the inherent revelations lent to the solo traveler. I had just had the revelation that this dawn drunk was about to harass me, so without much provocation (I think he said hello in French and then when I told him I didn't speak French, in French, he said in English "Oh American....") I told him if he didn't get away from me I was going to hit him with my weighty paperback. How did I go from being a curious girl who may've entertained a conversation with the man, to an angry woman. He stepped away, somewhat, although his breath lingered between us, my heart puttered as I continued "reading". Breathe. Breath. Breathe. "Please Kiss me..." I rolled my suitcase away from him and plopped down by the well lit vending machines. My man proceeded to pull out a plastic ray gun that belted "Onward men" along with the manufactured tinny guffaws of play gunfire.

If you know me by now, you know I'm pondering Paris as my next neighborhood. I've just returned from my second visit in 6 weeks, and upon my groggy return to Barcelona, questions hover, sprout, hide... So I've seen that community, that seeking what you seek that uncovering your life purpose brings community and from that community yields your fullest potential. I went to visit the Lecoq international theater school, a physical theater school in Paris; reputable with staff; simultaneously chilly and warm and inviting students all truth-seekers and attention-revelers...such as actors are...And I have already, through previous theater work, absorbed many of Lecoq's concepts somewhat. But to be in Paris. The museum city. A new friend I met at a dinner in Belleville told me that Berlin is a roving instillation, a concept factory, and Paris is a museum. One elastic, the other established. Paris does feel ancient, an institute of deco, literature, gothic texture. I curled up in Shakespeare and Company twice, the creaky stairs and type writer closets spoke of romantic death and Anais Nin, Gertrude Stein, Margeurite Duras - all called here - as I am. But I know my life would be belt-tightening and somewhat unromantic..Paris' project-housing is more likely to be my residence based on my teacher/actor income.
But I've already pulled the bandaid off..I undid my life in California (ohhh beautiful winter dream). I moved to Barcelona, sight unseen - Hence, my unstable self can get thee to Paree. There is such a freedom in the anonymity and instability of my life and work here..there is also a palpable loneliness. I miss California, I miss Brendan, I miss enormous to go coffee cups with stiff all-day-long coffee, tri-weekly mani- pedis. I miss the light in my apartment, my bed, yoshi's, rollerskating, who I was, clarity..Knowing my place in the world..being sorted and tucked away. Only recently have I gauged the brevity of what I've done, and how I won't go back ..Can't go back..All my things are scattered and another man's magazines are in my blue bathroom.
So, I'm focusing on theater creating art. Working on a piece based on my Grandmother's letters, working on singing with Rico, the round atheist pianist who loves America, Jazz, Frank Lloyd Wright, and correcting my grammar. I'm working on sticking to my goals without fear of accomplishing them. Looking to going to Poland for a week long theater intensive at the Gratowski institute in the woods. Looking at putting work in.
All I did as a Januarian and Februarian was work and workout. I've developed a Spinning addiction (Izzy predicted this), mainly because of Merribelle the mini horse-maned blonde with a voice that is uniquely throaty and cheerful. "VENGAVENGAVENGAVENGA" SUBE!" LUCHALO!" Her passion for my pumping the pedals in time with house remixes of Ennio Morricone is the best inspiration of my day ... that and the free towels, soap, and filtered water I deserve as part of my ludicrously expensive gym membership.
If you can't play in the city's distractions you become militant with your money, saving at all costs. I think this conscientiousness about saving money accounts for all the drawn hungry faces and wiry bodies I see in Europe..It's not that they are soo fit - they appreciate the monetary value of all they consume, so consume conservatively. Also, because of their concern with outward appearances, public eating is a rarity, and it seems they would rather throw entire meals away than put them in "to-go" containers for potentially embarassing public consumption at another location. Ohh its true...and yes, it has.
I'd better get a narrow, high-cheekboned face out of all this.