A Missing Piece

As of this writing its currently the second week of October. Yes, I’m still in France. Currently Ive shifted my surroundings from as isolate chateau in a town that was so small if you blinked you missed it, and the boulangerie was the most happening place to be. I’ve made and parted with some new friends. Had time to reflect. Squandered. Rationed. Panicked. Replenished- and squandered again. The seasons are shifting here. An Autumnal expanse has come over the city of Paris, the countryside and the suburbs. Its aggressively rainy some days, and other there’s a picturesque stillness that seems tailor made for anyone with a kodak, no filter needed.

Its almost as though the weather is reflecting my inner nature. Somedays are good, great even. Days when everything synchronizes and aligns like a perfectly orchestrated structure and the second guessing ceases. These are the days when the conversations are more meaningful, the espresso richer and air as crisp as the crust of a fresh baguette. Amid these days you’ll find me at my best, traipsing along- affable – almost too much so- with a bliss cooking on all burners and a stride that is my own, feeling sublime.

Then there’s the other days. The days when the self questioning and the ghosts of poisoned spiders of doubt find their way into my consciousness. When I feel cut off. My mind basically becomes an ill lit basement where I dwell on my own vacillating between truth and mania- with nobody to bring me back to earth. Going to such lurid extremes that I sometimes dream about them and feel they are going to come to pass in my waking hours.

“Okay-” I say to my self, “enough of this. I’m where I’m supposed to be, that hurdle is passed.”

So, why does everything still feel off balance?

Is overthinking and manifest destiny an occupational hazard of being a creative?

I’m starting to think it is. That constant lingering fear that I’ve gone to such elaborate lengths to simply piss in the wind.

Now let me say right now, this is not an admission that my move here has been for naught. On the contrary- in the past month I have been privy to experiences and conversations that have rocked me, experiences that have transcended anything in my past life back in the states. Ive seen so much beauty I almost feel jaded to it. The palace of Versailles, the countryside of the Loire, the hills of Montmartre. To say I’m daunted on how to alchemize this all into a work of some sort ( which includes ample poetry, stories and journal entries of truly memorable experiences) is an understatement.

Yet, I recall my previous entry- the old refrain- ” Wherever you go- there you are”. So here I am. In France. The same baggage. Physical and mental. The same quirks. The same dumb forehead I wish was smaller. The same shortcomings in regards to daily life. The same penchant for early mornings, strong coffee, old movies and aversion to sudden loud noises, hip hop, big crowds, anything involving Jimmy Fallon and sweet potatoes. When I stand in the mirror of wherever I’m hauled up at the time, the scenery has simply shifted-like a backdrop or something out of a high school play. I swapped Blackjack for Baroque, the Arts District for the Eiffel, Vegas for Versailles and still- I remain this way.

Begging the question- whats the missing peice?

Perhaps I’m still looking for my stride. My “qui appartiennent”- my belonging. I feel as though my life is morphing into a Studio Canal film with an Eddie Vedder style soundtrack, complete with its own colorful assemblage of supporting characters. “Into the Wild”, yet not as rough. I don’t regret anything in being here. I know this is the place I’m meant to be. But it will be all the better when I locate that missing piece. What will it come in the form of? A job with high pay? A flashy new visa? A dashing lover with eyes that shine and a penchant for Proust? A place to call my own?

I sacrificed all to make this life happen. Gutted my apartment like a codfish. Gave and sold things. Watched items I held with the veneration of religious symbols disappear behind the cold gates of a storage unit purgatory. I’ve always been of the belief that your bounty is measured by your toil, what you place on the alter will signify the sum of your fires- or, being a former Vegas boy- “I went all in”.

Time to shine.

-Even though I loathe puzzles.