Having trouble writing something worth posting that isn't either too A.D.D. - jumping all over, but landing no where - or like a intoxicated person's wanderings - disconnected so as to never be understood. Honestly, I feel drunk all the time now, and have that quesy feeling in the pit of my stomach - like when I fall in love and am not sure of anything yet- can't eat, having trouble sleeping, it feels like love.
I capture my writing in bits and pieces as thoughts occur to me, on the metro, by the Seine, in a museum, my hand writing fast, trying to keep up with my thoughts, before an impression or idea is lost to the next. I feel overwhelmed, almost unhinged, by the experience of being in Paris, all I seem capable of doing is going out early, coming back late, walking and walking, looking and seeing, hearing, tasting, smelling, and walking some more.
I am running out of words to describe it - and the words I have left seem weak. Like my friend Jen said "its hard to write novels about happy people, because they smile, and then they get together and smile some more, and then...well...they smile," then the grinning starts and it all goes down hill from there.
I wish I had more talent with words - so that I could do more than merely tell you that I love Paris over and over again; more than simply list the places I've seen, but help transport you there, but I do not seem to have a dictionary of words as great as the palette of colors Monet used in capturing the reflections of sky on water in the lily ponds of Giverny.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment