Yeah, Paris {day} dreaming, People. My first thought:

JC! Do my sunglasses really look that big on my face?! They’re like dwarfing me.

Or maybe it’s that I know I was kinda under the influence in this pic. Alright. So one can’t be “kinda” under anything. But you know what I’m saying.

Not over Paris … not by a longshot. Never will be, Peeps. Paris lives in me. Like a baby. Um. There’s a weird and troubling comparison for you.

This shot of Mr.LovelyCloche — that’s what I named him, because, yeah, clocks I decided — they’re always in the male form. In my mind at least.

M. LovelyCloche {which means “clock” by the way, en français}, proudly hangs in the Musee D’Orsay.

There’s something reassuring to me about this big clock hanging there. Which I find odd, because usually clocks fill me with the unerring reminder that my life is slowly and fastly ticking away.

As though all M. LovelyCloche’s are asking me, “what the F do you think you’re doing with your life?”. I swear, People, I think I can hear them saying that to me. And then I start thinking, shit! I’m not doing enough.

Must. Do. More. Suchas: love people and do do-gooder things.

Anyway. This LovelyCloche … he comforts me. Probably because he’s in the Musee D’Orsay and to me, that whole place might as well be like Maman, with her arms wrapped protectively around me.

Though. I’ve seen all sorts of un protectively things happen there, like meltdowns and shoutdowns {or is that supposed to be “outs”?} and people chasing after people and tackling each other to the ground {talk about excitement! I thought I was seeing a real robbery in the live and flesh!}.

But still. I am comforted. Content. Peaceful.

Probably has something to do with all the Van Gogh’s. I swear to you, I could sit there all day and not move — and I know ya’ll know I mean it when I say all day.  Losing myself in Church at Auvers-Sur-Oise.

Hell, losing myself in all of his paintings. What is it about VG, which is what I kept calling him, but then stopped when Maman asked if I was talking about an STD. I guess there is something that might make one think of an actual vag with VG.

Anyway. What is it with me and Van Gogh? People, I never really got to convey just how moving of an experience his work is for me. Because I’m afraid there aren’t any words for it and any words I do use, you’ll just think I either need help or am hyping that shit up way too much.

Both might be true.

What I do know … is … I am brought back in his work. Some part of my soul. Like those paintings literally talk to me.

Since they took the chairs out of his D’Orsay room {probably to deter weirdos like me}, I periodically would walk out and sit on one of the benches — the one closest to the entrance. Security was particularly humored with me. As I’d sit, with my head turned completely to the right, angling just so to get a good look at Starry Night through some heads.

Only to go back in, stare, sigh. Go back, sit. Repeat.

It’s hard when you know you’re going to have to leave at some point. Like for real and for good. Not knowing when you’ll be back. That’s what kept me there so long. I wanted to memorize it. All of it. Even the random people and the families with crying kids on art overload.

Security asked me why I was taking so long, and I said, I just want to feel close to Van Gogh.

Thankfully they didn’t 1.laugh at me and 2. call for help. Actually, I think they totally got it.

It’s so great when you can be so open and honest with complete strangers and they agree with you.

Till you have a Brother that tells you that what you really said is : I want Van Gogh’s closeness in me.

Lovely. Language barriers, People. They’ll get ya every time.