after bad decisions i sometimes wish they had designated seats

Only an hour and thirty minute flight and over 50 kisses. 50 kisses!

And by a couple in their 60’s nonetheless!

Even a French kiss—who French kisses on a plane?

(The French, perhaps).

And the woman has terrible B.O.

And the man is balding.

And they’ve been collectively attacking Sudoku puzzles and kissing and smiling and kissing smiling and wee wee wee’ing in their soft, romantic French since the moment I sat down.

It’s becoming unbearable.

Are all the French like this?

This joyful, this happy, this in love?

If so send me back to formality and coldness!

Return me to the land of stoic lovers, anything beats this mushy hyperbole—

Another smack of the lips…

I close my eyes but hear them smooching.

I count in my head. They’re on a 30 second average—every thirty seconds a smooch.

I put my headphones on but it seems to heighten my sense of smell and the B.O. wisps passed my nose and recalls the smooching.

B.O. and baldness smooching.

B.O. and baldness smooching.

Her fingers entangled in his last few strands of hair,

Her B.O. testing my last few strands of patience.

Oh, let Paris be beautiful!

Please be beautiful.

getting ready for Paris

Today, after sitting in Café Class in Edinburgh on a sofa that proved not to be as comfortable as it looked, after eating a smoked salmon and cream cheese Panini that was far more delicious than it sounds, I moseyed on down to Grass Market to one of the used bookstores that sit on both ends of the street just passed the triangle of strip clubs, where stocky rugby-type boys make jokes and thin, long-legged dancers anxiously smoke cigarettes and look into pocket mirrors. I wanted to get some books on art, and I left with a book on Dali by Giles Neret and another on Van Gogh by Ingo Walther; both thin, slick-paged volumes with colored pictures and lengthy bios published by Taschen. Dali’s work has begun to intrigue me. I like the melting clocks, the way he professed the construction of his own genius, that he said, “The only difference between the surrealist and me is that I am a surrealist.” I like that he was friends with the poet Garcia Lorca, and that when he fell in love with Gala, whom he’d imagined and painted before he met her, he could not stop laughing maniacally in her presence.  Van Gogh I know even less about. I know he painted Starry Night, cut off his ear, and that the ‘g’ in his name is silent. If any of these facts are not facts, do tell.  I also picked up a book called “How to Draw Anything,” which immediately seized hold of the two pounds jingling in my pocket with the opening chapter entitled, “You can learn to draw,” and an even more fabulously reaffirming follow-up sentence, “Yes, you really can!” I hope the “you” is me and it’s true. Finally, I picked up Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast, a book I’ve been meaning to read for some time. I have spent the past couple of hours lying on the couch with it, gobbling it up all at once, like a good meal. I like that when Hemingway is sad, he says he is sad, and when he is happy he says just that. No bullshit; he even states when he has discovered a secret he wishes not to tell.

Anyway, if anyone out there knows of any good books on art, I’d be very interested.

The Project. Stage 3. ART.

Beginning mid-August I will be traveling to Paris to study art for a month. Conceptualizing and framing this aspect of the project is proving to be difficult; how do you study art? and for only one month? My plan is to go to the Louvre every day I am there—the goal, 25 days in the Louvre—and to sketch and write while I’m inside. Also, to read as much art history as I can and to find either a class or tutor where I can try my hand at drawing. I’m a terrible artist, despite having two parents who are accomplished artists and a grandmother who was a professional artist.

I’m a bit nervous about this aspect of the project, not only of humiliating myself and hence fearing paint-brushes and colors for the rest of my life, but of not being able to get anything out of the month—of not learning. So if you have any suggestions, ideas, books to read, movies to watch, etc. I’m all ears.

There were times when I considered abandoning this project, mostly because of the cost, but the idea has never evaded me entirely, and the farther I get into it the more I am reassured of its importance and relevance to my generation in particular. Many of us are burdened by loans, more so than any generation before us. We are entering the workforce in a recession and the pressure of juggling debts and supporting ourselves can conflict with our personal interests. As a result, there is often a large gap between what we want to do and what we are in fact doing. We have been told, and the modern world seems to reaffirm the idea that hyper-specialization is best way to advance and succeed. And yet, we risk living monotonous lives. Of never really challenging ourselves and discovering what we are capable of. We risk truly educating ourselves.

RECAP

Poetry- Brunnenburg, Italy, check

Warrior- Muay Thai in Phuket, Thailand, check

Art- Paris, coming soon

Dance- Cuba, coming soon

Music- New Orleans, Dec

Philosophy- temple, Spring