It is morning now. By the time I awoke, the hesitancy of hoarfrost had vanished. I slept, not well, but long enough and well enough that today may not be an unendurable ordeal.
The drapes in our upstairs bedroom were raised, for them to install the door to our bedroom closet, I assume. Rather than close them, today or last night, I snuck about furtively, naked, in my own bedroom, using whatever garment was nearest to divert the worst of my debauchery from the innocent morning commuters. We’re at most two blocks from the high school.
From the France journal –
Today there is rain and wind in Paris. I have lyrics to songs I have never heard demanding to be written, and no time for a creative thought. It’s 1:10 in the afternoon at a cheap cafe in the sex district. I did a sketch of Meighan, a decent work for a feeble-sighted hand. Tomorrow we will be on another train. The last time I rode one was yesterday, 3 years ago. Time does not exist. We are traveling here, throughout Paris and then to Lyon. A million miles away for all we really know of it. A million days away for the way times runs here. Everyone is a foreigner here, and we all feel at home. Children run through sex museums with their parents like it was Disneyland. Foreign men on metros who can only say two phrases in English. Fuck you. I love you. On drugs, condemned to odd behavior, with foreign rap playing through small ear phones. For me, a “fuck you”. For the girls, a passionate, brutal “I love you.”