Si, j`existe, mais où ?

It`s true that one, it would seem, in foregin lands with a foreign tongue, seeks solace in one`s own native words...I write so much here.
And the imagination, starved, sometimes, on life in these solicituous moments; conjures up the bizzare, the colourful, the crazed, the dead with balloons floating out of their mouthes. Every encounter leaves an imprint.
& too, that, my french is growing and growing. I haven`t spoken english, or almost nothing, in ten days now...look, look, what is building built inside of you!
and coffee and long searching walks by the fleuve met with the salty sea air in the morning, living in this little chalet until the days turn brighter again..and wine, cheese, homus, tomatoes, figs, apples, peppers, orange juice.
and my skin ready to burst in the need to be touched.
but shhhh, create, create, someday will come. someday..

Still before midday, and five rides under my belt, inside my ears that ring from the bombardement of french tongues like lizards, I find a little path off the road that draws me into it, honey to a bear. On five hours sleep, walk is tough, my bag sinking into my feet.
There are times when instinct drowns all which surrounds, like the snake which insists to swallow everything in sight, everything; trees, houses, elephants, people...the thirty metre serpant that Apriliana met in her home village in Indonesia. Desires, often, do not just arise, there is a provocation, an alarm, a bomb of lust.
My skin, as of late, whenever touched, explodes with tingling meteor showers. Don`t tell anyone.
A scent...I drop my bag. Beside me, the path dances with wild strawberries. Hundreds of them. Juice dripping from my lips, my hands hands sticky, full of sweetness.
Later, in a field full of daisies and buttercups, entered by a little path wth a bridge created by pieces of wood, I lie and gaze at the sky quickly turning to dismal clouds again.There are times, living on little to nothing, that the senses roar. Lust is a moose on it`s hind legs in the autumn leaves. It will leave you behind in the snow to mate with only footprints left for you. No, not lust. A single touch is all that is needed.
Sing, blue bird, sing.
There are ninety nine names for God in Arabic; happiness, the one and only, the merciful, ending in the hundredth : God.

The roar of isolaton, how many days can you without eating? Half finished stories. Food enough to burst. French. Encore. The desolation of our generation, never has any society known the terrifying cult worshipped by modern civilisation, abjectly on its knees in front of the menacing spectre of nothingness. A firefly dying beside me in vermont, watching its light slowly burn out. Vague conversations with no roots. The old man who thought I was a girl. North carolina and the time with Teegan. Boston and the ugly mess of Mike and his mansion wielding father. The night in new hampshire with the mosquitos. Deborah and knives and rain and getting lost down old country roads. Stacking wood and clarity. Old dead words that never lead anywhere, never mean anything. How are you? My grave is well, thank you, sir. Food, oh food..bad wine. Dozens of dreams in one night.. Books. Wisdom. Growth. Wild plants. Forgetting the existence l`amour or anything close. Just forgetting. Even Kansas and the midwest and the bible belt whipped across my built. Immigration officers. New friends. The feeling of movement, crisp in the heart. Smiling, really smiling. Bangos by the bonfire.
Then be strong, be great, be energetic in everything you do.
Wild strawberries. And in this moment, it`s all that I could ever need.

Night by the river, Montpelier, Vermont.
Observing his or her own personal laws...what others are important?

Meanwhile..some of the french canadian accents sound suspicously like the cookie monster. Pour vrai.
And I can`t finish a Budweiser to save my life. It tastes too much like rat piss (or how I would imagine it). It makes me afraid to grow a tail and wear tight vests with a wonked baseball cap glued to my head. Is this paranoia? So beit, I`ll take it all, even if you are `quebecian` avec `culture`, mais tu es faute et gros. Salut, mes amis.