Breath of French air

When I play piano I smell Paris.  It motivates me.  November reminds me of Paris because I was last there in November.  I want to roam the halls of Versailles and look for a secret entrance to underground tunnels where there will be a river made of broken promises. Somewhere in Paris I believe I will master the piano and uncoil the language and write my novel in French about Morin, the French astrologer from the Renaissance.  I love this cool weather and it is the best time ot be in Paris because the tourism is light and the air is cracker crisp.  This is the best thing I can say about my day, is the imagery of future memories; padlocks with an identity crisis.

And that I dreamt that Henry Winkler visited a house that I was in and turned into a man I knew in San Francisco only slightly older looking; given that I haven’t seen him in nine years my brain was painting as it could; like, as any drug user can attest, when I dream of smoking a joint or other substance, in the dream my mind tries to recreate the sensation but it’s like watching someone do it on TV.  Thankfully I’ve flushed those out for the most part.  Last night I dreamt I saw my friend naked but she was nude also in front of another woman and a blond haired man and it seemed normal;

As for this day, all I can say is that there are times when you work through something, when you sustains it because it sustains you in a way or there’s something there worth keeping; and then there are times when it’s beyond rationality, beyond hanging healing stones around my neck, meditating it to a manageable nub, or going to the gym four times a day so your breasts are so overdeveloped from anger weight lifting men can’t look you in the eye and you know how it feels to be a woman; well, after today, I am beyond all of it with this particular issue.  It does nothing but produce hatred thought swirls and make my middle finger sore.  I’ll stay cryptic until it’s out of my life then I’ll get full on specific, if need be.  Let’s say I’m a magnet at times for the secretly sullen; it just happens;  I feel for the person but it’s like urinating in my blood stream;  that’s part of the reason I’m grinding my teeth into brownie mix.

I look forward to sleeping and seeing what the great Henry Winkler wants to do next with my spirit guides, hopefully not let them appear in an Adam Sandler movie.

 

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