appetence
“It takes two people to create a pattern, but only one to change it.”
Nights are humid and noisy. Where I stay is atop a street bustling with cafes and bars. Daytime, it is cool and quiet. By 4 PM, chatter and smoke fill the alleyways when the sun’s at its zenith. I’ve to walk between two bars to get to Rue 2. Men with legs as long as the lake and hair loose at their shoulders smile and gesture; one licked his lips as I strode to the door.
It is brash without boasting—the seduction by twilight.
I am being forced from the carapace I’ve worn for years. In Geneva, I wear my loveliest outfits with my hair to show my neck and clavicle. A green and silver ring on the middle finger of my right hand. Velvet hair ties and skirts. I’m tempted to toss all of my jean shorts and skirts. The only individuals I’ve seen in denim are children.
I have a natural inclination toward mimicry.
I sleep late and bed even later; my morning ritual has been broken by the long midnight hours listening to the Swiss dine outside my window. I cannot be annoyed when I do not understand the context. Perhaps I shall always live where the language is foreign. I am more patient. Kind. Modest.
The apartment I share with four others has a bedroom for each and two baths. It is decorated with Moroccan pillows, sequinned blankets, dried flowers, a grand piano, plants of all sizes, and gilded mirrors on the floor. A round table and a tall shelf of books took my breath away.
All are composed in French. I look and do not touch.
Pictures of Frida Kahlo and a painting of a dark woman with a turban against a blue sky look over me as I write.
There are a lot of women in this space, physically and metaphorically. The presence of strength is vital. I sleep soundly, knowing guides are watching over me. I turn out the lights and wear earplugs to blot out the parties outside. The sun sets near the turn of each day.
Clara heard the birds and thought it was mice. I am used to the bustle and pop of the landscape.
Moroccan lanterns hang from the wooden beams, giving each room a soft and colourful wash. There is one man who lives here with us. He is gentle in spirit and wears dark clothing. Our host is my age, teaches English online, and sings in a band. I’ve never seen so many CDs.
Relics are resplendent to the soul.
I’ve recycled one book, two journals, one shirt, body wash, and a yoga mat thus far. I cannot carry all that I keep. I will have to purge more as I leave here. How to choose what to wed and what to release? Items are like people; I cling to all I love even when I know it's too much to bear for a duration. My tenacity is occasionally inspiring. Other times I am so sick of myself that the meanness leeches out.
Is my rest wonderful because I do not remember my dreams? I’ve nothing to remark since my arrival in Geneva. I typically catch the tail of the image and tease out the symbols. I absorb so much my subconscious cannot choose what to purge.
For now, I silently collect the postures and presentations of a Swiss city.
I am like the sun, turning toward a new day with no thing in mind and clouds obscuring my warmth. A new pattern presents itself with each step on smooth stonework. My diet is different. My dress is unique. My habits have morphed around my living space and the strangers outside my window. I am like a slab of jello; I contain some semblance of shape and yet shake and wriggle with the atmosphere.
What are my roots and where will I place them?
What patterns will I keep as I traverse foreign cities?
What rituals keep me anchored?
What routines will I assume based on the role of the other?
It is a dialogue, this art of living. I must adapt to the culture and yet hold my rhythm as the waves leap up and threaten to drown me in the steady hum of society.
When Greg and I were in Thailand, we brought our own inflatable canoe to tour Koh Tao. I sat in the back and he the front on the day of the dark storm. We paddled with the wind and ripples for hours. My arms felt like a rubber plant, and my body oozed salt back into the Ocean that tormented us. We did not move, stranded in the eye of the squall. Eventually, the swell released our canoe, and we made our way to the shore.
I discovered the tenacious agility of the elements that day and how working against the flow only leads to my exhaustion. My body listened to my command. Greg and I worked our muscles in tandem and held tight to a fixed destination. It could not have been any other way.
Surrender to the storm—be it weather, relationship, or emotions.
The turbulence I experience right now results from a lack of sleep. I dream of standing upright. I nod off a half dozen times each day and return to where I am. I arise mid-conversation, forgetting who I am talking to. I have no one to speak with; I do not have any friends or know the common language. The dialogue is within. I start and finish sentences haphazardly. I forget the decorum of speech.
Photo source.
