A Reading

34, rue Saint-Louis en l´île, 2011

January 31, 2011

They've gone. I am alone now. Having grown used to such fullness, each day bulging with activity, today feels quite hollow. It grows later, yet I hesitate. A reading. Do I really want to leave my new apartment? It will be my home for such a short time. It's terribly warm and comforting and I'm feeling rather lazy. Yes, yes. I should go. No, don't make it a should. Make it a want. Okay, I want to go. I'll be happy. I know I will. Up already. I go. It is cold, very cold, but my journey is brief. I settle into one of the last available seats and soon she is before me, just a few feet away. It is an intimate space. A tiny Left Bank bookstore brimming with books and people. She begins. Her voice, at first curt and British, a bit rough, is soon reined in to soft. And then she finds it, she's exactly where she wants to be. Her voice sways with perfect cadence and the chill I've brought inside with me begins to dissipate. All that was rigid is now relaxed and I begin to take in my surroundings. Books, old and new, stacked to the ceiling, uneven columns on the verge of collapse. It is dusty and warm. The eyes around me look tired and hungry, yet patient, fully willing to wait for food and sleep. I sit quietly against the west wall of books, their spines making faint impressions in mine. The lower shelf I sit upon seems to become harder as the night progresses and I strain to keep my shifting silent. Climbing into her world is difficult, as I am so immersed in my own. So much new. Her voice slows and then finishes. There are questions. Why do they always seem to disappoint? And then it is over and I am jolted as all of the bodies stand at once and the wine begins to flow. But this is not my ending. I wrap myself up beneath the necessary layers, push through the crowd, and hurry into the icy night air beside the river. Quiet, cold, the traffic a simple hum. Lights twinkle all around me and scattered flakes of snow fall slowly as I cross the bridge and head back toward the island. I climb what seem a great many well worn steps and then I am sealed tightly inside, four stories up, behind my cerulean door.

The Still Point