Author: leaving traces

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I miss Paris. I miss France. North American’s think they are so clever with their craft beers and locally roasted coffees, but nothing beats a small cafe from Europe. Or $3 wine from the grocery store that blows all “local” aromas out of the water. My netflix line-up is filled with series and films directed overseas. This pandemic is taking a toll. My privilege lifestyle is inconvenienced. I am depressed. Ships. Waters. Turquoise oceans. Travel agents. Red and white.

*stage notes* pause for family interruption. They got the schedule wrong. Surprise. Surprise. I’m quick to judge.

Bring me a baguette with buerre avec sel de mer. Sea salt butter on a fresh baguette every morning from the local boulangerie is a dream. Now I’m a stepmom. My culture is family life. TV. The couch. Radio on in the car. What the fuck is that?! It’s just noise.

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I never listened to my hair before. Why did it remind me of kindling crackling on a fire when I twirled it between my fingers. Crackling and popping. Snap, crackle, pop. Is my hair dry and brittle? If I listen can I hear and understand the language of my hair? what would my other hairs’ say? My arm hairs… are they always too hot or too cold? Do they eavesdrop on conversations at cafes and at the grocery store? Was my hair dying for me to listen? Shit. I’ll have to pay more attention to my hair. Brittle. Crispy. Wound Up. maybe my hair has been trying to tell me something this whole time… my hand is cramping and my back is sore. I need to move my body. I think I’ve run out of things to say. Hairy.