I remember when I became an adult that December, sitting in the back seat of the car with my sister in the cold, waiting for our mother to finish kissing a man who was not her husband. Is this what Love is? My mother was always in too much love, but none of it ever felt like it was for me.
I remember how it felt to distract my sister from realizing that parents aren't perfect. With Christmas carols still ringing in my ears, I tried to love her enough for everything to be okay and for nothing to ever hurt. I'm still trying.

Its funny the secrets that a family keeps from the world, from each other, from ourselves. No one ever mentions the word "alcoholic" at least not with their lips. They might scream it with their eyes, or with his smell, but he is still the one who took care of us, who provided. Even now, when he refuses to take his pills and the cancers left him peeing in a bag, he's still the greatest man I've ever known, the only one I've ever loved. Even now, I hang on his every slurred word, as if they were the last words of a dying God. Eloi, Eloi, lamma sabacthani?

I keep my eyes open. Watching, waiting, always ready. I keep my ears peeled, for the sound of your voice, ever present; the melodic chorus reverberates in my soul. You are the rhythm that keeps me moving, you are the rhyme falling from my lips, you are the only truth that my arms hold. I try to explain my faith, but they only laugh. Mocking. They ask if I believe in magic. And I ask if they believe in the Sun.

centre pompidou

le voyeur

Dali

Kandinsky is one of my absolute favourites, the colors he evokes always make me smile, and his lines too, just wish the afternoon shadows weren't so bad

It's ten o'clock, and the sun still hasn't set. my eyelids are heavy with this day.

The girls in Brisbane wear little to nothing to cover their insecurities. Their bare skin aches and cries out for acceptance. Am I beautiful? Am I good enough? If you have to ask with your breasts and thighs, then no.

The girls in Queenstown are not from Queenstown, but from just about everywhere else, they drink too much to make up for their lack of substance; they travel too much to make up for their lack of personality; they moved here for adventures but find only the same problems as back home. (But they are quite nice at least, and can one ever travel too much anyway, really?)

The girls in Auckland are quiet, reserved. They are self aware and beautiful. They are a mystery to me.

The girls in Abu Dhabi are covered from head to toe, yet their beauty still permeates their black robes. Their figures shout out from beneath like doves, ready, waiting to be released. Their hips sing me a song of strength, of power. They lie in wait of triumph.

The girls in Milan, you can recognize by their heels, 6 inches, at least. Glamazons, every one. Can you fly from Abu Dhabi to Milan in six-inch heels while pushing a stroller and still look good? Still look like the baby in your arms couldn’t have possibly been in your belly 8 months ago? If you’re from Milan you can, and you can hush the child with the grace of the Madonna without even breaking a sweat.

The girls in Paris are always too young, and always too old. Their cheeks are sunken in from the cigarettes. Their hair is a mess. They wear no makeup except for their red lips, as if to say Je m’en fou. They are always dressed impeccably, understated, but perfect. They unashamedly look down on me as we ride the Metro together but apart. Their eyes say they are better than me, and maybe they are.

Maybe they all are.

milk with chocolate ice cubes. yum.

lol. this reminds me of too many roadtrips.

I wonder if you knew when you founded your Church that it would turn into this:
Magnificent pillars, rich mosaics, beautiful statues,
A lovely, cold emptiness
An apathy that permeates the reverent silence
Is this the gilded cross you bore?
And this your marble crown of thorns?
Idols upon altars do not instill the same awe as a single act of kindness
I wonder how much money was spent on these pillars of righteousness instead of on your will
I wonder how many built this temple in praise of you and how many in praise of themselves
Saints are not all that is buried within these crypts.
I whisper a silent prayer, lest I too forget
Your body is the temple, Oh Lord, not this place
My heart is your altar, Oh Lord, only there will I worship,
Only there do I love.

.........It's a funny thing, waking up a million miles away...................................................

.........................................waking up somewhere the past is a million years behind you.

.............................................................somewhere you are l’etranger..................................

..........................................................................and you can be whomever you want...........

..................................................................................you can even be yourself.......................

.............................................................

Here there is only quiet............................................................................................................

.................................................... Here there is only solitude..................................................

............................................................................................................ Here there is only me...

.............................................................

Alone, there are no one else's expectations to disappoint.................................................

............Alone, there are no one else's problems to fix..........................................................

.......................................................Alone, here, I can fix myself.............................................

.............................................................................I can find my own expectations.................

....I left all my tears behind in Australia.................................................................................

...............littering the streets....like Gretel’s crumbs....leading me here.............................

.....but I will not follow them back home...............................................................................

............I need to rediscover my strength........to be a better me...........................................

Yesterday, someone thought they recognized me on the street........................................

............................................................................................“Jane?”...........................................

.....but, no.............................. sorry............................it’s me...............just me.........................

.........It’s funny how being a million miles away, you can feel at home...........................

.........It’s funny how getting lost, you can discover you...............just you........................

In french, "to miss" is "regretter." Je regrette toi, in so many different languages.

On dealing with crowds

  1. Be still, 

  2. Find the tiny place inside your heart where there is peace. 

  3. Breathe. 

  4. Remember what it feels like to be whole. 

  5. Remember how your fingers tingle. 

  6. Remember the quiet and ease of your smile, that small satisfaction it brings. 

  7. Breathe. 

  8. Feel the hairs on your arm bend to the will of the wind. 

  9. Feel your lungs fill with that will. 

10. Breathe. 

11. Find solace in your isolation. 

12. Listen to the silence within. 

13. Keep breathing. 

(My ears buzz with only the knowledge of myself.)

I'll miss these stars

Circle Board in Paris - must watch.

Did he who made the lamb make thee?

That's the thing about people who mean everything they say, they think everyone else does, too.

back to the future

This reminds me of the sixth burough:

{come see.}