Normandy Chalk

Driving to the small down of Bois de Guillaume from Paris should only take an hour and a half. The morning drive that started for us at 10 am, ended only at 1pm. The traffic, the stress seems to evaporate as soon as our host C_ came to meet us barefoot on the driveway. She seemed to glow in a skirt with her long blond hair as she invited us in to the garden , and showed us our rooms.
This was one of those rare days in the north where the sun beat down hard onto our foreheads, slowing down our movements and making us squint across the long table at each other. We passed bread and cheese and radishes over rice salads and fresh melons. Not an overly luxurious spread, but somehow deeply french and totally delicious.
After coffee and cigarettes, we all tumbled into the car to go to Dieppe: the Brighton/ Atlantic City of Normandy. What I can only identify as french 'white trash' clash against the bo-bo weekenders. The white cliffs and pointy large rocks that lead to the beach would make the most graceful topless women walk as though severely deformed and brain damaged, until finally and thankfully plopping into the water, no matter how cold or cloudy. Swimming out a good ways and turning around to look back at the rocky gray and white beach, the fields above seemed to be held by columns of milky air rather than solid cliffs. Floating on my back the thick classic clouds of Monet and Pisarro hung above me, seeming to be made of the same chalky milky stuff as the cliffs. When the sun came everything turned into the harshest white, and I felt like I was swimming through an overexposed roll of film.
As we were leaving the next day C_ called out to us to not forgot the rocks. X had grabbed them for the beach and she told us they were actually chalk. "Go write all over paris with our normandy chalk", and handing the rocks to me, and me to X, we all were left with a thin white film on our fingertips that smelled like the sea.

Slow Summer Garden

Almost mid-august, definitely mid-summer, soon to be September.
My summer took some time to grow into what it is now: bursts of work on my laptop, walking through the park, making hummus, compote,tortillas (from scratch bien sûr),painting, dinners with friends in our garden , watching movies projected onto the wall, and yes- bouts of rootless , fuzzy depression.

All of the sudden in the middle of it all- the continued explorations of Paris, of getting closer to friends, looking recipes up online- the whole of autumn turned on it's head. Now instead of this we are doing that. Instead of going there we are staying here.
I probably don't beleive that things happen for a reason anymore, but I feel the residue of that belief as I plan for what I will do in Paris instead as the summer spins down. The things I want are clearer- not only in my to -do lists and mind -maps but my days are beginning to follow my dreams, slowly (very slowly) crafting the life I have into the life I want.

I'm not off by much- but I give myself hell for it: paint more, run more, worry less, friends more, clean more, read more, facebook less, twitter better, blog some, sleep less,party harder, nytimes.com less, work always, plan faster,calm down.

Execute now.

one pair of hands , one pair of feet

Last Thursday I bought a yoga mat.
I was having lunch with friends at Paris Plage, and F asked me to go to decatho with her. I rode on the back of her scooter- the best possible view-going over pont neuf, up through the left bank and over to the 13th. Afterwards we went to her place and drank orange juice and had some moulleux de chocolat. We took a p'tit sieste in the sun. On my way out she she gave me her basil plant.
I walked home with my basil plant and my yoga mat. The sun was strong and tiring, and the day felt slow and complete.
Before leaving that day I saw a man in the garden next to mine (separated my only a fence). He had a dog and wore a winter coat. I wondered about him as I walked, but mostly felt the weight of the things I was holding.
Coming back into my apartment, I set down the plant, I unrolled the mat. It was brighter inside then when I had left. Why was the curtain open in the bedroom? Standing at my doorway I saw broken glass all over my clothes. The glass door was shattered, and a shovel lay on my pile of shoes and papers.
When the cops came, I tried to tell them that le type clochard may have done it . The just asked me if it was always such a bourdel in here. X and I looked at eachother and laughed- well yes it usually was.
Sitting the next day in the apartment I felt deeply shaken. Glass on my clothes. A shovel on my things. A hole in my room. Nothing was taken, but I realised I lived in a little glass box. My neck ached. My leg shook. I could not calm down. I opened the closet and the red , shiny yoga mat slumped forward and slid out onto the floor.
Unrolling it again, I tried to remember how my old swami used to have us calm down, how to meditate. One of the first excercises I remember had to do with hands and feet. He said you only have one pair of each, and they are only yours. They carry you through life and open all the doors for you. Sitting down on the mat I looked at my hands. I touched my feet and rubbed my thumb into my instep. I pressed my palm against my heel. I sat up straight and remembered to think about the air going in my nose and out of my mouth. After some time the hole in my apartment drifted away.

oh-my-god: i-have-a-blog !

hello world!
Just randomly occurred to me to do the this and add my mind-detritus to the piles that I sift through everyday in front of this screen.
It just becomes too much taking in and not enough giving back after awhile, even if no one is listening or watching. Part of my reluctance has come from the many abandoned blogs that I come across. There is always the last date, the lost readers and the end of the story that never really had a reason to end.
I recently said to a friend 'write always'. I really meant it. I don't want her to stop.
But it also made me wonder why I don't start.
So my inspiration comes from two main places: a) My dear friends i capture the city electric and just the good stuff,please and b)a recent article in Modern Love in the NY times in which a woman realizes she is responsible for her own happiness.