Notes from the Underground, II

The most intimate moment is when we first
awake and meet another's eyes. Our whole
conscious, unprotected and clear, is visible, and
the other can mold at will
whether our eyes illuminate or are adorned in darkness.

12/5

Who am I to think I can control my recklessness here. Who am I to think I can say no. But yet. Who does not want to give the utmost respect to the heart they know best, their own? I do not mind such adventures, such irregularity. But I saw the vespers of Notre Dame and a man playing piano through a smoky window in his apartment, with books everywhere and life strewn and abandoned for music. I saw a French field trip with kids excited about their souvenir shop purchases.

I see so much and there’s so much more and I cannot deal with the weight of my heart.

12/6

Subway. A lost half hour because I got lost and procrastinated. Quick decisions. An uneasy feeling tonight that will only be fulfilled by tea and words.
I love hearing this language. Even if they're insulting tourists and the media (the subject of conversation of two men with laptop bags on the metro).
Hot wine with friends. Listening to intelligent debate on the metro, contrary to the 2 dolled-up girls with their diamond boots and aloof confidence in the same metro car.

12/7

Shaking cold in every part of me. But the music. The rock of his bow, his fingers so numb with cold yet still searching for their note partner in the fray of sound. People watch with eyes closed, all basking in the sound. I felt at peace, even if there was somewhat of a bizarre contrast between the church and the power of his music. A competition of sanctity.
I think people only smile on the metro when they are in love or listening to their favorite song.
I eat out, walk around, talk to strangers, see concerts, make few or no insulting comments. I want to talk about art and politics and poetry, not bitch about personalities or discuss drunken escapades. Eating is never a priority over adventure. Money is little concern but I won't spend uselessly.

My lips were on His crown. The total powerless power, the inward quivering, the completeness of faith. A feeling that life was at a peak and it would be difficult to get to that moment spiritually again. Rocking back and forth with tears. He was just so there, so present to me.
Oh the beauty of language. Chinese music and French conversation and my scratching pencil and the smell of Thai food and the sound of their language coming from a small window in back. So at home when I'm alone. Or maybe it is just my love of listening. Jasmine tea and a full stomach and French warmth.
I knew day one that this was a 'me' experience. I never realized how content I would become by it. Madame called me "petite cherie" this morning, saying last night as we watched the ballet, "Sleep later! This is worth more than that." She loves and cares and is fiery and passionate. She stays active and pushes through sadness and lets life keep moving her along. She lives the best I can imagine.
When I'm back at school, I'm promising myself this, in writing. I will wake every morning early to go and read and study and learn. Art one week, architecture the next, Dickens, Spanish. There is no need to have a placid mind.

Love in her soft eyes. Amused, content love.
So at peace with being here. The familiarity of individuality that I do not want and will not lose when I return to the soil of my past mistakes.
Wrapped up in my own ownness.

12/?

Maybe there will be a guy one day who sees me go to mass and wants to join, or thinks a great Saturday night is happy hour and a Fred Astaire movie. Or maybe I'm pressing my luck.
I think, or I thought, sitting in a cafe, watching the men work and people talk about the issues in Central Afrique and gossiping, two girls being petty and smoking like American students, that we are all the same.

That is what I love here. The realness of a child's face, of the girl shouting "Mouton!" (sheep) and playing peekaboo in the ditch of Marie Antoinette's hamlet. Seeing sunlight on St. Sulpice church. The beauty of artificial light on an angel's wings.