Thursday, June 14, 2007

A Blog Post Appears

it has been made very, very evident to me that my blog is a complete joke and, in truth, i couldn't agree more. i started my blog with the hope of providing my friends with insight into my musical interests and the concert-going life with the suspicion that one day it might blosssom into a bonafide weblog. however, in the last few months instead of using Blues From Down Here to keep my friends and family up to date with my life i have quite selfishly retracted into a voyeristic state of glee reading the accounts and speculative treatises of my friends. jas, trevor, john david and glenn have been turning out some great posts and i've been greedily consuming without giving back. i understand how selfish this has been, and may this post and those to come serve as my formal apology.

{it should be noted that rob and william, two of my most talented and boisterous hecklers, haven't produced any more online material than i have}

Paris.
it has, quite unexpectedly, drawn me into an introspective and largely withdrawn period of wonderment towards life's simple pleasures: a mid-day glass of wine or espresso, warm soft bread, afternoons sitting in the grass, the sounds of children, immaculate produce, an empty bench a good book and a blithe sigh of contentment. granted, i give my daily tours of the city to mobs of khaki short-clad camera toters (which have actually yeilded surprisingly little fodder for stories and blog entries), but outside of these obligations i spend a lot of time alone. i'm covetous of the little enclaves of endulgence that parisien life affords you. at the end of my time here i believe that i will genuinely miss this city, this sprawling mismatched metropolis. paris is quick to offer a warm embrace, but in its arms you feel the hidden condescending smirk at your back. as an outsider you get a taste, an essence, of the city's gifts but they're never truly yours. that isn't to say that they aren't enjoyable, but reality is often a nagging reminder that this is all temporary.

after my initial adjustment period came and went i had to come to terms with the realization that, even with an apartment, job, friends, comfortable familiarity with the city, routines and plans, this isn't my home. everything about me, from my markedly american appearance to my laughably inaccurate french accent, signifies my transitory state in Paris. my thoughts drift to stories from home. i'll catch myself chuckling at an unprompted remembrance of a jon wolfshohl gag or a late night conversation with b-rock. i miss taco tuesdays with joe, andrew and the chef. walking alongside the sea of gangly gaulish-nosed french women makes me miss ashley. i want a cup of coffee inbetween shifts at the restaurant. i'd love a ride in the cr-v and the inevitable grin when jas slides the toadies cd in the stereo. hell, i'd even relish a bob sea forearm smash.

the odd twist to my current situation is that i am truly without a home. i've always held Thomas Wolfe's You Can't Go Home Again as one of my favorite novels, but only now do i fully comisserate with the sentiment beneath his prose. moreover, i'm not only without a home, i don't even have a career-based avenue of intrigue as i look to relocate. i'm excited for the prospect of moving back to the states. although i don't know exactly where that will be or what i will be doing, i have a certain amount of bravado (naivete) that convinces me that i'll be just fine.

As a peace offering allow me to extend these songs. My treat.