I so rarely walk up through Montmarte by myself; I save the path for nights with Philippe. Pere Lachaise cemetary is what usually speaks to my state of solitude, aloneness. But today, when going out for cigarettes, I was so enchanted by the sun and the people and the ripeness of spring that I just kept walking, up past the Moulin Rouge, over and up the big hill I nicknamed Mont Marty long ago, when my ability to pronounce french seemed a far away reality.

Much different during the day, with the shops open and the sky on- less touristy, if you'd believe it, than at night. It doesn't feel as surreal- or I should say it still does, but not grey surreal, painted in hues of black and ready and willing to swallow any vibrancy. That too is beautiful- dangerous like a Halloween night, exciting. Surreal as an icon, surreal as a point of comparison. But lit.

I wandered into the old church, by the carousel. Old churches in Paris always have a hold on me, with the mysterious nooks and habit of stained glass making it so every corner is lit from within, golds and ambers, the comparitive simplicity of the stained glass. Reminds me of the insanely complex cultural history Europe has that the U.S does not, except by a long wilted association. The religious is secondary to the cultural. One thing I noticed on P and I's last trekk up Montmarte was that there is an abundance of art deco era stained glass- in which simplicity, geometry, and form are the keys. In the U.S, stained glass is reserved for religious purposes, but here, there are deposits of stained glass in kitchen windows, public buildings, of all types and all shades.

Today is a surreal sort of day, I keep dancing towards things, away from them, lost in meanderings and ponderings. I always get this way when I feel alone- in a basic sense, not emotional- P is in Milan today, and its almost as if without him in the city I feel alone in the world as when I was single and my mind could take precedence over anything and everything. As if I can sense the removal of his scent from the city. I miss this, sometimes. I was in love with thinking and thinking was in love with me and there was every possibility of a new discovery. Loving someone so much is beautiful, but for writers and for artists there is always that element of imprisonment of mind. Especially for women. I get scared of what I could do, if alone, what I should do in this life. It's infinitely more dangerous and seductive. Femininity is a a hard wall to hit, including in love. Sometimes I wonder if loving someone means giving up the reality that was yours and yours alone. I sense something deep and reckless within me that demands attention from me least of all, but from others. Something important I'm supposed to do. I missed floating.

Flying.