(no subject)
RAMBUTEAU STATION
After an awkward coffee and cake in a cafe on the corner near Rambuteau station, I pay the bill and open my loaner umbrella. The streets are glossy and dirty, reflecting gold light in filth puddles. I’m distressed by my damp shoulders, but just barely.
I meet a stranger in Rabuteau station - he is lanky and unpreened, but with a subsurface debonair and reminds me so much of P*** my mind spins. He says he’s never seen a queue in the train station.
I’m not sure if I’ll be able to return to the line and he makes fun of me a little. He asks me where I’m from - I say New York but he knows the queue-honesty is not a New Yorker thing - the Midwest seeps out of my seams, I guess. He tells me a story about the Midwest. I’m not sure if it’s British or Australian English he speaks but it’s educated - though not reserved.
Mid-story, the train comes. “Can we finish over a glass of wine?” He asks.
“I have to get back, I have grandparents waiting for me,” I say. They are decidedly not my grandparents but they are in their 80s and I do not want to keep them waiting at night. “Walk me to chatelet?”
I return to I**’s and they are watching a dated-looking television program about Vesuvius.
FUNERAL
On the bus to Garches we make comments about how appropriate the rain is. The driver gets slightly lost and takes a wrong turn. One of the funeralgoers (Can I call us mourners? It does not seem that appropriate) is from Garches and knows the driver is lost.
Once at the cemetery we wait in the rain. I have the loaner umbrella and Mr. and Mrs. J** hadn’t brought one, so we stand very close together. At last the hearse arrives carrying the casket. When I purchased the thing for N**a I never realized that it would be seen so much - it was the cheapest casket the American funeral home carried - with bronzy-colored polished medallions at the corners engraved with crosses. I am grateful she was Christian - had the cheapest casket had Stars of David, it may have been awkward.
They place it on top of the sepulchre and it is far too big. Mr J** wonders audibly (barely) how they will get it inside. But the priests are chanting and singing now, making signs on everything waving a silver gemstoned cross, and there is a plastic mixing bowl full of dirt with a spoon in it off to one side.
The funeral attendants place a rope around the giant casket and lower it sideways, then diagonally, and it slides into the opening - barely.
They pass the spoon and bowl around, and the funeralgoers take turns heaping a spoonful of priest-blessed dirt into the hole.
**please don’t make me do it,** I think. Something about it doesn’t seem right, like as if this little bowlful of dirt could ever be sufficient, like an obese woman covering her nudity with a dish towel, and here we are spooning it in. But they hand the bowl to me anyways.
On the way out I say goodbye - I want to - I say it quietly. And I surprise myself and start to sob a little.
I don’t want Mr. and Mrs. J** to see me cry- that’s embarrassing. And here we are to bury the Iron Lady!
On the way back to the Armenian Cathedral the driver takes another wrong turn and the other drivers lay on their horns at him.
THE END OF ANNABELLE
At the hotel alone on the last day I am tailspinning into introspection. I am no longer used to being alone.
“The state must enforce the family structure,” says a cylindrical-shaped man on the screen. “Without it we are without community, without belonging,”
He is not unthinking or ignorant - he read the book and got a clear view of what *hbq meant, but then, I want to say, “You obnoxious blowhard - how dare you force the state to enforce something which is our individual privilege, our own responsibility. How can somebody think so thoroughly about this and come to such a different conclusion?
But his description of the End of Annabelle is spot-on.
And as much as Hbq writes about politics, about culture, moral degradation, neoliberalism… he is most concerned about true love.
The cylindrical man is spot-on about that, too.
Look, my pity party lasted two days, and that was it. I felt barely sheepish about crying off my eye-makeup - aren’t I a little old for this? But it was delicious and cathartic. I imagine being at work again, telling coworkers, “I am just happy to be back”, and meaning it. But that does not mean I did not have a “good time”. It’s just a lot to face in yourself, funeral or no funeral, and looking that starkly in the mirror is exhausting.
Outside the museum of Judaism I am suddenly aware of my age.
“How old are you?” I ask him out of nowhere as we pass some *rue de* - I have no idea where we are.
“42,” he says, “You?”
I make him guess.
“37? 36?” I’m shocked. Nobody ever guesses higher - and I tell him so.
“I’m not offended,” I say. “I don’t need to be validated by youthfulness.”
He says the crows-feet on my eyes were the giveaway - but I think he may be negging me. I am not 18, of course - I know what men say.
He makes no attempt to touch me and I am relieved. He is not, after all, P***, and I have no desire to touch any man but *****.
And the things which seemed eloquent and mature when I was young look embarrassing on a 35 year old - let alone a 42 year old.
I’M NOT AFRAID - I RIDE THE TRAIN AFTER DARK
Back at the hotel alone I put on a song and start to wave my hands. The solution becomes evident to me. Annabelle was a dead woman for her last forty living years - I am not a dead woman, not at all. It is service which breaks you out of this zombiness and makes meaning in life.
Ein Ani! Ein ani Ein ani Ein ani!
After work sometimes I put that song in the headphones and just celebrate - there is no me - no dead me, no me to die! There is nothing tragic about selfless service - it bursts with joy, it fulfills. I listen intently, feel fondness.
Is this the family life that the Cylindrical Man was talking about - with the children and all - but no need to procreate, no need to fill this decaying planet with young people to inherit its catastrophe. And what’s true love? Do you need a romance? The Iron Ladies welcome me as one of them.
I wanted to think it was my going-away party but on the way to the airport I remember all of the “goodbyes” I said to this precious part of my heart. And it wasn’t the first time I said, “I will never say goodbye” - but it was the first time I said so not desperately.
HBQ would never write a book about me.
I am too empowered and he doesn’t know how to fit someone like me into his narrative.
Like Drake says, you can still do what you want to do, you’ve got to trust that shit.
After an awkward coffee and cake in a cafe on the corner near Rambuteau station, I pay the bill and open my loaner umbrella. The streets are glossy and dirty, reflecting gold light in filth puddles. I’m distressed by my damp shoulders, but just barely.
I meet a stranger in Rabuteau station - he is lanky and unpreened, but with a subsurface debonair and reminds me so much of P*** my mind spins. He says he’s never seen a queue in the train station.
I’m not sure if I’ll be able to return to the line and he makes fun of me a little. He asks me where I’m from - I say New York but he knows the queue-honesty is not a New Yorker thing - the Midwest seeps out of my seams, I guess. He tells me a story about the Midwest. I’m not sure if it’s British or Australian English he speaks but it’s educated - though not reserved.
Mid-story, the train comes. “Can we finish over a glass of wine?” He asks.
“I have to get back, I have grandparents waiting for me,” I say. They are decidedly not my grandparents but they are in their 80s and I do not want to keep them waiting at night. “Walk me to chatelet?”
I return to I**’s and they are watching a dated-looking television program about Vesuvius.
FUNERAL
On the bus to Garches we make comments about how appropriate the rain is. The driver gets slightly lost and takes a wrong turn. One of the funeralgoers (Can I call us mourners? It does not seem that appropriate) is from Garches and knows the driver is lost.
Once at the cemetery we wait in the rain. I have the loaner umbrella and Mr. and Mrs. J** hadn’t brought one, so we stand very close together. At last the hearse arrives carrying the casket. When I purchased the thing for N**a I never realized that it would be seen so much - it was the cheapest casket the American funeral home carried - with bronzy-colored polished medallions at the corners engraved with crosses. I am grateful she was Christian - had the cheapest casket had Stars of David, it may have been awkward.
They place it on top of the sepulchre and it is far too big. Mr J** wonders audibly (barely) how they will get it inside. But the priests are chanting and singing now, making signs on everything waving a silver gemstoned cross, and there is a plastic mixing bowl full of dirt with a spoon in it off to one side.
The funeral attendants place a rope around the giant casket and lower it sideways, then diagonally, and it slides into the opening - barely.
They pass the spoon and bowl around, and the funeralgoers take turns heaping a spoonful of priest-blessed dirt into the hole.
**please don’t make me do it,** I think. Something about it doesn’t seem right, like as if this little bowlful of dirt could ever be sufficient, like an obese woman covering her nudity with a dish towel, and here we are spooning it in. But they hand the bowl to me anyways.
On the way out I say goodbye - I want to - I say it quietly. And I surprise myself and start to sob a little.
I don’t want Mr. and Mrs. J** to see me cry- that’s embarrassing. And here we are to bury the Iron Lady!
On the way back to the Armenian Cathedral the driver takes another wrong turn and the other drivers lay on their horns at him.
THE END OF ANNABELLE
At the hotel alone on the last day I am tailspinning into introspection. I am no longer used to being alone.
“The state must enforce the family structure,” says a cylindrical-shaped man on the screen. “Without it we are without community, without belonging,”
He is not unthinking or ignorant - he read the book and got a clear view of what *hbq meant, but then, I want to say, “You obnoxious blowhard - how dare you force the state to enforce something which is our individual privilege, our own responsibility. How can somebody think so thoroughly about this and come to such a different conclusion?
But his description of the End of Annabelle is spot-on.
And as much as Hbq writes about politics, about culture, moral degradation, neoliberalism… he is most concerned about true love.
The cylindrical man is spot-on about that, too.
Look, my pity party lasted two days, and that was it. I felt barely sheepish about crying off my eye-makeup - aren’t I a little old for this? But it was delicious and cathartic. I imagine being at work again, telling coworkers, “I am just happy to be back”, and meaning it. But that does not mean I did not have a “good time”. It’s just a lot to face in yourself, funeral or no funeral, and looking that starkly in the mirror is exhausting.
Outside the museum of Judaism I am suddenly aware of my age.
“How old are you?” I ask him out of nowhere as we pass some *rue de* - I have no idea where we are.
“42,” he says, “You?”
I make him guess.
“37? 36?” I’m shocked. Nobody ever guesses higher - and I tell him so.
“I’m not offended,” I say. “I don’t need to be validated by youthfulness.”
He says the crows-feet on my eyes were the giveaway - but I think he may be negging me. I am not 18, of course - I know what men say.
He makes no attempt to touch me and I am relieved. He is not, after all, P***, and I have no desire to touch any man but *****.
And the things which seemed eloquent and mature when I was young look embarrassing on a 35 year old - let alone a 42 year old.
I’M NOT AFRAID - I RIDE THE TRAIN AFTER DARK
Back at the hotel alone I put on a song and start to wave my hands. The solution becomes evident to me. Annabelle was a dead woman for her last forty living years - I am not a dead woman, not at all. It is service which breaks you out of this zombiness and makes meaning in life.
Ein Ani! Ein ani Ein ani Ein ani!
After work sometimes I put that song in the headphones and just celebrate - there is no me - no dead me, no me to die! There is nothing tragic about selfless service - it bursts with joy, it fulfills. I listen intently, feel fondness.
Is this the family life that the Cylindrical Man was talking about - with the children and all - but no need to procreate, no need to fill this decaying planet with young people to inherit its catastrophe. And what’s true love? Do you need a romance? The Iron Ladies welcome me as one of them.
I wanted to think it was my going-away party but on the way to the airport I remember all of the “goodbyes” I said to this precious part of my heart. And it wasn’t the first time I said, “I will never say goodbye” - but it was the first time I said so not desperately.
HBQ would never write a book about me.
I am too empowered and he doesn’t know how to fit someone like me into his narrative.
Like Drake says, you can still do what you want to do, you’ve got to trust that shit.