When do I begin to write for real? | 6 July 2006

Paris — Here visiting Kelly. I’m at her apartment; she is still at work. It was a long day of traveling, but I’m starting to feel better. We’re going out to dinner and leaving tomorrow for Burgundy.

I feel unfrozen right now — and I’m not sure what that means. American music coming from the windows below and everything seems more lovely from here.

When do I begin to write for real? Am I not? The failure associated with what I’m doing — the life I’ve chosen to live. Bishop wrote here and Stein and, of course, Camus. They say this city is magic.

The wishful thinking had become just thoughts, her mind like a message in a bottle. She had it all, but


Coming back from Paris | 11 July 2006

photo-28En Route Houston –

Coming back from Paris. A beautiful weekend spent in Burgundy tasting wine and driving through the small villages of France. Perfect — except without Mike who would have loved it. Makes me think of traveling with him for the rest of our lives — getting to — married. Sometimes it still doesn’t seem real, the word, married, the word husband.

Continue reading

18 October 2007

I’m supposed to be on a plane to Paris right now but I’m in Chicago instead. Delays and I missed my connection, so here I am once again in the city of you, city which I found you, including where I wished I found you. Held, held over. There are lights, each one — it is fall here. I feel you tonight, the breath of leaves.

Continue reading

19 October 2007

photo-18City of you — somewhere, I walk on the sidewalks here covered in fall, those red leaves I swore I’d never leave and I did.
If I could erase the space that is between us. I might no longer desire you, so says Carson. But I only dream of tearing you apart to jump inside you, to be there sucking on your heavy heart.