it was a rough flight. got chatting with a fellow passenger at the airport bar, one glass of wine became two and then there was the free champagne on board . . . monsieur importer with your fancy fitbit and good book recommendations, so so sorry i did not say goodbye properly, but by the time we landed i had a bear of a headache and could only think Taxi.
i got a little weepy. i was, in fact, a bit of a mess when i stood here: weepy amazement that i was standing before this place i had so deeply imagined, that it did in fact exist; shaking from a fresh wave of anxiety over what i was trying to write and how much further i have to go, that this still is not an end but only another expensive, exhausting step . . . and then annoyance that i could not somehow simply absorb it into myself, the truth of this place as a building and a space and a constant through so much history.
in short, i wanted to eat it. in a kind of alien i will absorb your consciousness and become we, the author-hotel de sens, kind of way.
i want to eat a lot of paris.
it is my nature to strive for completeness: every i dotted, every t crossed. but one week in paris is not enough for such a thing . . . and the cold weather is crippling. instead, starting to think in terms of stills, frozen moments that can be transposed into the narrative, in all their texture. also thinking of windows and mirrors. will be coming back to the carnavalet, above, to tour it properly; this afternoon was just getting my bearings.