It’s too dark and too early and raining.
It’s sort of how it happens here; the light switch gets turned off, as if the earth has a wobble in it that suddenly makes it so that the sun is all of a sudden beyond the earth’s rotation, not the gradual shifting that I always imagine it to be. I showered last night so there is less to be done this morning. Just dressing and making a coffee and drinking it, packing up my things. The cat’s taken to sleeping on my office chair, which I find annoying because eventually there is a layer of fur that coats everything she chooses as a resting place.
Last night I spent way too much time on Pintrest, looking at and saving pictures of France. There is something about that place that excites me, its colours and history, and how beautiful the esthetic is. Cities that were planned rather than mushroomed, and even though we have entered a modern era, the craftsmanship in the old things that have withstood the test of time are a testament to beauty and good work, embarrassing our current disposably inclined culture to step it up a notch when comparisons are made.
I’d like to make snow angels in the Père Lachaise Cemetery. I’d like to ring in a new year from the top of the Tour Eiffel. I’d like to roam the Provençal countryside on a bicycle with a big basket on it’s handlebars, filled with picnicking things and bring back an armful of lavender to where I am staying. I’d like to go to Grasse and sink into rose petals. I’d like to sunbathe nude in St-Tropez in the late afternoon sun without any sunscreen on. I’d like to eat macarons and sip espresso at Ladurée, and walk the banks of the Seine in spring. I’d like to see what’s left of Joséphine’s garden at Malmaison.
Did I ever tell you that the bourbon rose, “Souvenir de la Malmaison” is my favourite? The palest of pinks, it’s the kind that is so densely petalled that it feels like a powder puff against your skin, and the smell, oh how lovely it smells! It smells rich and sweet and fruity, the kind of scent that would make all other scents try just a little harder if they were able to.
I’m on the bus, now, having managed to put a comb through my hair and dress and sip two thirds of my coffee and pack my lunch and my iPad and keyboard in case inspiration strikes during my lunch break, or if I want to read an e-book. I’m not ready for the week, or the day, really. It’s the kind of weather that drives me indoors and keeps me there, snuggled in a blanket with a coffee to warm me from the inside.
It’s not really cold outside – in fact it’s quite mild, but the blue skies from yesterday have become washes of Payne’s gray and all it signals me to do is rest. And I have been. In fact I feel guilty that I don’t get more done. I do what is necessary to keep things going and then I indulge myself in lengthy periods of daydreaming. I’d stopped doing that, and wondered if I would be able to do it again. It’s been a long journey back to it, but I think I’m getting the hang of it.