Angels at the window

a little truth

This morning i read a poem on someones blog that made me remember what my life was like when I was 33 

 a little true story story

in the spring of 1983 when I was just 31 I fell in love with a painter - he was French and for months we made love to Bartok and slept together and ate together and I posed for his drawings and we walked along the coast in Pt Reyes together with backpacks full of wine and cheese and kisses. We dreamt of our future.  we made plans to travel the world. kissing at all the great shrines Angkor Wat, Pagan, The Plain of Jars, the Temples of Tibet

My French painter left for his studio in Holland and I prepared for the rest of my life: quit my job, let out the apartment, drove across America in freezing winter, and on Valentines Day was in his arms under the bleak Dutch sky.

but there was a shiver and the fear that something wasn’t quite right and within a few weeks the dreams imploded leaving a heart more broken than I could ever imagine a person surviving. I traveled all the shrines of Europe alone. Crying.  Florence, Pisa, Paris.  Crying  I finally washed up on the Riviera in Via Reggio at at small pension where the owner worried that I would die when I couldn’t get out of bed for four days of profound sadness.  I lost weight and finally returned to my parents in the early summer.  Plans, promises, preparations had all vanished replaced by tears

With my flat in California rented and empty months ahead I enrolled in film school at NYU and proceeded to learn to make movies and learn how to say/create something that was true.  My 33rd birthday was spent in the editing rooms on east 7th street.

I KNOW the feeling. One does recover but there are scars deep inside my chest to remind me and the skin next to the scars feels numb.