I find myself

I am in a chalet in southern France along the alps. There are chairs under each window that sit between wallpapered stars. On the chairs there is a boy with a skirt, a javelin, rowing un a river through a meadow. There is a you g girl with a parasol and they appear to be having a romantic natural jaunt. My bed is made for 3 people l, California king, but French. Above it us q pain in of crocuses and hyacinths, pansies and bluebells on kitchen shelves with some paint. I am a bit drunk since I just left the spa bath and decided to open some geuze to enjoy while the bubbles were activated. I am bloated because I had a large Michelin star dinner last night of ten courses after a few glasses of house viognier. I am worried I might bleed through my fine Terry cloth bathrobe. I wonder if i can purchase it. The art dictates tools and plans for chateaus from centuries past. There is a shelf with some Chinese urns and some incense. Several villas from the French Alps are featured. The bathtub does not have a clawed foot; it is a taloned foot of a dragon it appears, with a ferocious face above it. It is made of marble.

I want retrieving my geuze to get dressed for breakfast at 10:30. It is marriage parfait, a toasted hay color, 2012 four year vintage with as much wild fermentation as one could dream of from brouwerij boon. From outside it appears the tables have been set in the garden. I will continue to read about how to navigate the Pacific through a topography of water motions while at the pool admiring the chalet.  Then go to Geneva to meet my friends Edmundo and Giovanni, the gays. The gays let me be fabulous without feeling inferior themselves. On my holiday by myself, I can find my own way to chalets with zero network and minimal human interaction. "can you being me another glass of house white in ten minutes since I'll be finished with this first one by then? Oh thank you so much!" without anyone, anyone calling me selfish.

no one has to know I feel less alone out here than Ive felt in months, dining by myself in the alpine woods listening to the fountain in the courtyard. I have room to taste every goopy bite of cheese. It's just me, my dreams exploding, and my best girlfriends around the world far far away, yet present in spirit.

The first London post, 1.5 years later

Little and fat. That's how I feel. My face is little, my arms are fat. I am beautiful and pathetic. Youthful yet lost in a past decade. Somehow ten years flew by and I didn't notice how to refresh myself. I'd have to start from scratch again, but scratch scratch. Like, with no things. No . Things. Id like to do this. In fact I think I'd express even more of what I've collected over the years if I could do so. If I could go to a new house, analyze the moisture in the walls and the decay in the corners. Tell myself, yes, for this I need a textured couch, mid mustard with Curt stone furniture and ancient-looking books with stains on them. Forget the pillar candles.
I sort of did this last year, but then I lost myself in plainness along the way. I arrived as eccentric as a billionaire. I felt safe feeling perfectly unsafe in most scenarios. an exotic isolation and innocence. A tropical person pretending to understand winter in fake furs and a concealed Miami tan. Too temporary to mind not connecting. Too special to relate anyway. With a precious intimate circle of support and access.

The idea of seeming familiar to London terrifies me. Because London is nothing. It's the most privileged empty city that exists. Like a friend you never knew which makes you sad, it consistently never reminds me of itself. maybe I should know more people here.