Let Tears March

Mélange

Let and laisse
your things and mes choses,
take and tack
marche and march
the steps of Edith
and feel le sens
d'une ville that seals
un amour in my coeur
et le flight de mon soul.

10/20 Back to Paris from Normandy

We arrived yesterday and I was so afraid, built up with aching anticipation. The lands were as I imagined, the white cows and horses cross green and orange landscapes under a pale blue cloud-filed sky. (Just now in a field, saw two men, one holding back a barking mutt and the other lifting the prize of a rabbit, in the middle of a post-harvest field) Also the rest stops, with junk food and coffee machines and lines for bathrooms and sugary drinks and babies crying or wandering, the smell of gas and al haze of sale exhaustion, truckers and trucks lined and piled all over; it is all so familiar and such a delight. Almost got coffee or treats for the sake of being in a rest stop again. I realize now how they were a part of my childhood.

I could live on the walls of the medieval town of St. Malo, with its seagulls and crashing waves and shops that draw you in with cozy antiquity. These hills, filled with red-roofed homes and dirty play toys and bikes and flowers and the feeling of a comfort, a familiarity. In St. Michel, the monastery and even side tourists streets had the feel of serenity and spirituality that I sometimes find lacking in Paris. I love it all, but I would give up bars and clubs and crowded metros and busy streets for cider in a haystack in Bretagne or Normandy.

I ache leaving it. I think I may belong here, or in a place like this.

I wanted to run from beach to rock at Omaha, but little kids were doing just that and it was moving enough. Calling “Papa” as they dart up the sand in such stark contrast to the soldiers’ torment as they made the same run. In the cemetery, as Arlington, I said sorry. I don’t know why exactly. I knew most should not have died, war is silly, etc. But y apology feels greater than that. That I will never truly understand, that I can only humble myself to a point with learning and listening. That I could never meet their eyes and feel worthy, or worth anything to the level at which they served, the level at which they died. That is what I was sorry for.

A man, Hispanic, marched nicely dressed in brown tailored suit, and saluted and marched away. He might understand.

My tears kept raining down, an uncontrollable shivering sadness into my bones. I missed everyone and everything as if a part of me was being buried in the ground at that moment. A quiet panic.

The rain was a soft patter, the birds a glimmer of companionship. The sound of steps, rustle of my jacket. All calming. Touching the damp cold stone of the crosses, so bitterly solid yet reassuringly so. Everything was just such a stark contrast.

                A rainbow over stains of blood.

The bunkers were just fun, an excitement that video games and movies and my fort-loving self caused to stir within me. I fell in the mud, crept through barbed wire, and imagine the adventure without a thought of mortality. Sun and rainbows shined there too. Just so stark. I felt a fluster beyond content and the sorrowful remorse.

Sitting in a marionette bar, swinging away, drinking games and laughter – I wonder sometimes at my desire for isolation when things can be so joyous with others. But this morning, the walk/jog on the wall, I had to do alone. The sea called to me more than anything, crashing against the hidden causeway, bragging in each crash and pull. The gulls, birds in a swarm, boatmen on an antique ship, the stars and moon slowly giving way to sunlight… a rope tearing me away.

                Hopefully this week will not be too hard with my six euro finances and emotional struggles. I realize how much I appreciate the pure notion of friendship as I stay longer with these people. “I’m glad I met you.” For these friends, these experiences, this city and country and continent.

Friday in St. Gervais with a cloister of nuns, or St. Louis sur l’Ile, amidst a small devout group; both made my heart ache. The church today was so plainly open and awakening with its chanting. I just feel tossed about by people and places and contrasting desires and forgetting and remembering: it builds up.

Yet I know, as I look back upon Italy and Cannes and the month here, I see so much brilliance and light and change for me. I see something beautiful and young – and those things always seem to be looked back on one day with aching delight.

For this week, see art, stay cheap, active, and breathe. Be. Don’t miss too much, or it could overwhelm.