I am the most mentally unstable person that I know.
I have only recently realized this.
Every morning, the first person I talk to is myself. That inner dialogue starts a frenzied ticker-tape volley of thoughts the moment consciousness reaches me. Presumably, it was busy wreaking havoc on my dreams but, fortunately, I usually can’t remember those. I sulk out of my bed and prepare with my trusty Bialetti Moka pot the coffee which I hope will prepare me, not for the tasks of my day, but for the coming battle with myself.
I used to live in New York City where this hyperactive mind suited my life. Perhaps it was born there. In New York, I used to be a disciple of hustle, a reveler of bustle. I was busy all the time, and therefore, never once questioned my mental muscle.
And now there’s nothing. I live in Paris where the restrictions imposed due to Covid-19 have been strict. And I have suffered. Because of this cursed global pandemic, I have been confined to a 12-meter squared apartment for the better part of a year. Friends have moved back home and there’s an ocean between me and my family.
I know I shouldn’t be complaining. Living in Paris is a dream. I am very privileged, I know that. Everyone knows that. And it prevents me from receiving any sympathy from friends and family back home. Americans idolize Paris and the Parisians. How could anything be wrong in Paris? They think. What they don’t know is that everyone is unhappy in Paris. Even before the pandemic, the Parisienne was a real femme fatale. Now she must be insufferable.
If there is a good thing about our situation it is that we are all in this together. We can unite in our misery. Perhaps my thoughts are your thoughts. I am by no means the greatest sufferer and probably unqualified to write. But I have a laptop, an internet connection, and if I keep pacing I will soon need a new carpet. And you, the unfortunate reader, have to listen to this cerebral vomit.
This morning I was watching an interview from The New Yorker with Joyce Carol Oates, the famed prolific American author of 58 novels and an uncountable number of short stories, plays, poetry, and nonfiction. There she was at her writing desk and in her garden not doing much of anything. She starts off by saying this,
“I can basically write almost all day long with interruptions. It’s not really that I sit down to write as if it were some extraordinary act, you know. It’s basically what I do.”
God, I wish I had that clarity of purpose and identity. She is a writer that writes, and that’s it. And I think that is wonderful and personally, so unobtainable.
Just this morning, as I was drinking my coffee, eating my toast, and staring pensively out the window, which is something you are required to do in Paris. I thought about how I wanted to live in the Italian countryside near Montepluciano and learn about winemaking from a wise old fat man named Gino. I thought about how terrible my French is and how elusive and cat-like the French people are. I need more French friends. I need to send letters to my family. I need to stop reading the news. I need to go to Japan. I need to get in shape.
I don’t have a real answer for you yet. Only to latch on to things that are working for you and “jeter” things that are not. I like that word. It’s pronounced like juh-t-hay. It’s a French verb meaning to launch, throw out, dispose of, chuck, fling, and cast off. There’s such movement encompassed in that word. It’s so final and forceful. I have been jeter-ing a lot these days and it is helping.
Little things are helping too. My coffee making process has become almost ceremonial and spiritual. I have a candle now which I like and it makes all of my actions seem bygone and profound. I like to think of all the great manuscripts and documents that were written throughout history to the beat of flickering candlelight.
I used to find solace in books. But I have recently realized that my brain is too full at the moment to take in any more. It’s frothing over and the ideas need to come out.
Therefore, I have taken up writing. I have no idea if it is any good or remotely legible or enjoyable. But I like it. It calms my mind by giving me something to focus on. Plus, I can jeter all of my inner thoughts and turmoil onto you my dear and unsuspecting readers. If there are any of you out there.
This is the extent of my wisdom at the moment. Praise the good little things and pollute the world with your inner demons.
My candle is looking at me, disappointed by the un-profoundness of that wisdom. Moving on….
