I should be writing.
That’s a thought I have at least two-hundred and sixty-three times a day. It’s a thought I had riding on the 4 line today. Every metro-line is special in some way. The 6 line takes you over the Seine. The 4 line takes you to some of the train stations that have trains that will take you to other countries. The 1 line will take you to the Louvre and Tuilleries. The RER C will take you to Versailles. And the 9 line will take you to my front door. Almost. Please, do call first.
As I stood on the 4 going I cannot remember where I realized that I no longer have any excuses for not writing. I have a home in arguably the most storied city in history. I have a modest income coming in. I have all the tools - a brain, a laptop, and an imagination. I have time.
I began writing a draft of stories to compile into a book, maybe. So far I have written what, in my mind, amount to two potential prologues or prefaces. As the 4 line went past my intended stop and I got off to walk to the opposite side of the track and go back I realized I had been in my head telling myself a story.
I’m 53 now. I survived - you survived. You started unwanted; you found an army of people who love and accept you. You spent so much of your life living in your head; you found a home in a city that is more magical than even your imagination. You lost so much. And still, you kept swinging even when your arms were noodles that weighed a metric shit ton. You buried so many of the people who made you the man that you are; here you are, a man they would all be so proud of.
You learned to navigate between worlds you were never truly allowed to be a part of. It was hard, kid, but the payoff has been a life illustrative of something Kiplingesque. You have friends from so many different walks of life that your actual life makes those Bennetton commercials seem quaint.
I wish I could sit on that porch with you and tell you how it all turns out. But if I did that you’d miss the ride. And while the ride is bumpy and at times you were sure you were going to fly off one these times it goes upside down, in the end you get the girl and the happily ever after. So far.
It’s an epilogue of sorts; a post script to stories that still live mostly in my head and pieces and parts of drafts. A draft of an epilogue to a draft of stories I have carried for the sum of my life.
If you’re here you’ll get the stories - and likely the drafts, revisions, re-revisions. Along the way you will get to see the inner workings of my mind. Lucky you.
I got to my exit and walked. I do that a lot. I will start on the 9 line, get off at some station with some other line, get onto some other line, pick a stop, get off, and just walk.
Today’s walk took me to the back of Sacre Couer - a place usually buzzing ass-to-elbow with people. The back was a ghost town and the front was a fraction of the usual. Sundays in August are truly my favorite walking days in Paris.
I walked through Montmartre. I have this way of walking the city that my wife taught me a long time ago. She calls it “the little green man.” When we first got together she realized I really love to wander. Having a cohort along for my wanderings took some getting used to - we don’t all wander the same, you know? So, she suggested that instead of one of us picking a direction to go we let the little green man decide. You know, the green “walk” you see in the US? Well, in a lot of the world, instead of a word, there is a little green man. So, we walk and when we get to an intersection we let the little green man decide our next move and cross whichever street is green. Rinse, lather, repeat for as long as we are out wandering.
Three years of doing that in Paris means I am never truly lost anywhere in this beautiful city. I pick a line I have never taken and get off at a stop I have never taken and walk. And before I even realize it I am someplace I know.
You should try the little green man next time you travel.
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