I found that glass of wine. While getting a little bit lost and slightly turned around on my walk back to the apartment I passed by countless little bars, restaurants, cafes between the Louvre and Le Marais. Some were cute, some were edgy, some somber, some full of life, but none drew me in.
I have claimed my green chair in front of a fountain in le Jardin des Tuileries. It is nearing the end of the day, sun dropping slowly over my right shoulder, the Arc de triomphe du Carrousel straight ahead, the Louvre an immense presence catching the changing light. Supper is a tart, green apple and dark chocolate covered almonds. The only thing I would change is the water in my thermos for wine.
For an incredibly long time, the duration of my life actually, I have loved to create. This love has lived in juxtaposition with a tenacious aspiration to perfection.
Even as I reread that last sentence I find myself paralysed, agonizing over the placement of each word. Does is run smoothly? Could I find a better word for aspiration? And my recording of what started out as a clear train of thought comes to a crashing halt, cabooses colliding forward in a jumbled accordion zigzag as the engine stutters and runs out of steam.
