Notes on an Old Holiday

Old women must wear bright colors, or they disappear. Young women wear dark colors, trying to disappear and failing. Middle women are transparent, sheer to the ground.

Rivers are ancient. They think we are mosquitos they don’t even bother to slap, we’ll be dead so soon.

Young looks at old and thinks Old. Old looks at young and thinks Young. Neither recognizes herself as thinking anything.

We must not accept that anything is precisely what it is. Except disco pants. Those are definitely themselves. If not for you, then for your children’s children.

Bitten all over my ankles by French spiders. They’re leg men.

It’s been twenty years since I first came to Paris. This is my eighth visit.

Twenty years ago, I was a target of men. I walked quickly, with purpose, to avoid being hit, shot, or practice. Now—and maybe since my seventh visit—I can walk slowly, thinking, at last looking at lights.

On the river, in the sky, in my own hair, silver glimmers I can sense like antennae.

As a monoglot, in France, I fall back on rudimentary Japanese, a language I don’t really know. Often what I need to say amounts to “okay” so I say daijobu while weirdly bowing in a Japanese way to a French waiter. Then, correcting, I say c’est bon and that must sound so stupid, to say “It’s good” when a drink is spilled on me.

I don’t want to be an old woman. But why not? I was sexy. I don’t want to die.

It’s not bad disappearing into the world if this is what the world is like.

I mean I mean that double meaning.

I never used to believe I was part of the world that meant the world to me when I was young. But it’s me who changed, wasn’t it? Changed what it meant?

I think my room is a little depressing. Aren’t all rooms? When you could be outside if not for the bugs, the people, the traffic, the smell, the heat, the hot rain, the terrible sense that anything could happen to you?

11 p.m. The trees lit blue and green made me think there was still a patch of daylight. Suddenly, to have the whole day back!

If a reasonably long life, say 84 years, was divided into one single day, each hour of that day equals 3.5 years. When you are 14 years old, it’s 4 a.m. When it’s 10 p.m., you are 77 years old.

I’m already well past noon; I should be finishing up lunch if I’m using my time well.

Midnight–6 a.m.: 0–21 years. Still Dreaming

6 a.m.–noon: 21–42 years. Morning Glory

noon–6 p.m.: 42–63 years. Afternoon Delight

6 p.m.–9 p.m.: 63–73.5 years. Evening Rush

9 p.m.–midnight: 73.5–84 years. Last Call, or find another party.