In the middle of all this daily doing, hectic with activity, I long to just not « do » a thing. My time will come, I think.
Playing tourist guide to a visiting relative day after day tries my patience, even if it means wandering through the most beautiful city in the world, the only place on earth I can imagine living at the moment, with summer lovely and full, gently bringing out the best of Paris at its most elegant.
Everything seems to be spinning sometimes, a dizzy world whirled or a dizzy whirled world without end. My time will come, I think.
Until something catches my mind or my heart or my eye – a little girl smiling on the merry-go-round in the Luxembourg garden, teenage boys descending the Metro at Porte de Montreuil and breaking into laughter, an old woman asking for half a baguette, orchestral music drifting out an open first-floor window, abandoned trousers in the street – each one and then from each one another and then another and another, each and each and each…
Busy-ness stops. My time has neither come nor gone.
As I write it now, just as then, again I am what I am: Tu es cela.