Paris. As I sit in cafes for hours at a time. I’ve noted the restless metaphysical curiosity, the tenderness of good living and the passionate individualism of this city. There is an invisible constant in this place where an ordinary tourist can get in touch by sitting quietly over a glass of wine in a Paris bistro. But for a writer, the muse of the city forces prose from my fingers in cafes, museums, metros and buses. There is no stillness here. Even in sleep my mind is creating. New stories and revelations appear a force waiting to take form. It’s at once romantic, tragic and dramatic. A detour from my normal voice. I am but a conduit to the force.
In the writers happiest and most pure state of creation the words come through you, not from you.
My life has been altered. I’ve taken steps to morph, change and try new sensations. The object of my desire is now me. I’m in love with the idea of a creature open to new sensations, shedding the shrouds of my past.
As with any metamorphosis- I recognize there may be pain, that some will not participate in my cocoon dispersion and will be resentful of my change of costume.
Paris is changing me. Like at snake shedding her skins- I’m feeling reborn. It’s either a new skin or one that has gone unused for most my life. Everyone that loves me knew this would happen. They were excited for me. That some how a city would change me. They were right.
Je taime Paris.