Three thousand six hundred fifty three

November 28th, 2015, Paris.

She isn't much to look at.

I don't mean that in a disparaging way - she looks nice. Average. She's got some gentle curves, hazel eyes, and scowls when she concentrates. She's seems self-conscious about her two front teeth, and said she wishes her shoulders were a little narrower. She has an above average ass and below average breasts. She wants to get a boob job, she admits. But only sometimes.

She's young, I think? Late twenties. There's a pep in her step, so she can't be that old. She doesn't seem to like bitter drinks. She claims to be a climber. (I'm not sure I see it.) She knows a lot about cameras. And a strange amount about outer space - more than average, but not enough to be an academic. Still, she seems bright. Distractible.

She's come to see me, she says. She's come to Paris. A long way, she says. 

Three thousand, six hundred, fifty three days. (She points out that if it weren't for the leap days, it would be 3,650 even.) 

I ask what that is in years, and all she tells me is that it's around the number of heartbeats I have per hour. 

What is it you want, I ask.

It's what you want, she says.

She insists we walk. It smells like shit. The streets are dark and bitter, the Eiffel tower nowhere to be seen. I want to go back to the hotel. 3,653 steps - this is all she claims to need from me. 

She asks me a lot of questions as we walk, seemingly amused by the answers. Who's your best friend? Do you like your hometown? Do you think you eat enough? Do you worry about people thinking you're dumb? Do you think you'll post on your blog tonight? It doesn't matter what I say - her eyes just crinkle and she smiles in a real small way.

She has my hand in hers, pulling me behind her. We weave down alleys, cut through buildings, hit a few dead ends. (She doesn't seem to mind these.) Long after I've lost count of my steps, she stops just shy of a corner. Warm light pours from around it, just out of view. She looks me in the eyes, daggers.

Do you know who I am?

Before I can answer, she's bent over laughing. Soon, she collects herself and puts her hand on my shoulder, leans real close. I think you know, she whispers. She points to the corner.

You go ahead, she says. I'll be right behind you.

Always returning

Dear you,

It's 2:59am and in three days I'm making the single piece of art I've been working on for the last eight years, give or take. It will take four days to film. It will be twenty minutes long. So why did it take so long?

I've asked that a lot over the years. 'What's wrong with me?' and 'Who even cares anymore?' filled my thoughts for the better part of a decade. Given, it was an unusual eight years. The story I wanted to make came to me at a very strange time in my life, I think. A time I could see farther than I could reach.

I've done some hiking since then. Up hills, down roads. I'm twenty-seven now. The sky looks different than it did eight years ago, as does the world under it. And I know now, what I should have known then: it simply wasn't time. 

I can reach out and touch the trees now. The grass, too. I can see the next valley, and I can go. There's a wind to my back and plenty of daylight left. When I look over my shoulder, I smile.

It's been more than a year since I've visited this place, this blog. More than a year since I've stared at the pink bird on the background. Hope really is the thing with feathers.

I don't know what's next, exactly. But I have a faith of sorts; a trust in the wind. Just like pain 'demands to be felt', art demands to be made. This adversarial relationship - it's a part of this world, just like me.

I can hear the music, I can sing the melody. We're singing it together now. And that's the key, I think.

Until then,

Solstice Everston

Codes

 Yesterday you put your hands over your face and said 

'this is going to sound corny, but...'

'You make all the love songs finally make sense.'

Girl, let me write you a poem

One about the 'L' word (not 'lesbain', honey)

I told myself to wait three months before admitting it,

That maybe I was just crazy, or infatuated

I tried my best not to 'UHaul' 

But queer time works differently,

And I can't help loving you 

I made it 79 days before cracking like an egg

I feel like I'm sixteen, not twenty-six

You gave me a piggyback ride down the street in public

And I felt crazy

I tasted you

And I felt crazy

You pressed me against the wall and told me I was your dream girl

And I felt crazy

I know you feel it too, and I know we can't help ourselves

Hands off the stick

Let the wind take us 

Maybe this plane will crash, maybe it will burn

But the resulting fire

Will be warm