Is that the name of it? I loved that album (she says, dating herself) when I lived in San Francisco.
Mark Twain once said, "The coldest winter I've ever spent was summer in San Francisco." He also described New Orleans as, "a beautiful woman with dirty fingernails." Both apt descriptions for two of my homes-away-from.
I realize I haven't written in a while. In an effort to stop apologizing, um ... you know.
I have insomnia (see: timestamp). We are going away tomorrow. Far, far away, to Paris and Florence. Lovely lovely lovely can't wait beautiful cities all that -- I did, actually, break my foot which is a slight hindrance to absolute perfection on this trip. So that's a relief -- I already know it'll be imperfect.
Broken foot as analogy for allowing life to be imperfect. Give it a whirl.
Yes, I've had a glass of wine tonight.
I was telling a new and lovely friend (that's you, Mr. K) today about how I managed to spend yesterday, a beautiful, springlike day following a fabulous week of love and festivity and preceding a potentially amazing vacation, immersed in tears and hiding behind my pal depression. Moods, we've decided, are strange, strange beasts. And it's beyond comforting to know that there are others out there who know and live this too. My sweet friend with whom I dined last night and I shared this realization earlier in the day when we had the following conversation:
LB: It's beautiful out.
VB: I know - it really is.
(pause)
LB: And for some reason, I feel like hiding inside.
VB: OH my god me too. Can we have wine?
It takes a lot of effort to maintain a chaotic mind. But the payoff is fairly huge. If you're reading this and you know me, you're part of the payoff, and I love you.
I'm off to the continent. As my nephew would say, "Von boyage".
Je vous adore.
