Bob Dylan wrote and did a song called: Rainy Day Women #12 & 39,
And nowhere in his song is heard the words: Rainy day, women, 12, or 39.

Finding myself waking at the break of day to a coffee scented morning here in Paris, propping myself up on an elbow under that red comforter as I look around and breathe in that rich coffee smell.Thinking of what was seen in the dreaming as I attempt to shake off the dark colours of the previous night’s dreams, as I stare at the dust mote filled patches of the sun’s dark light as it illuminates the books lying there on the table. Recalling the meeting we had at the Louvre yesterday and those smells of fresh bread and black tobacco in the air,-
And parts of the conversation we had as we sat there in one of the sub-levels in the Napoleon Court complex. Under the Louvre’s glass pyramid and flanked by heavy granite counters and black floor to ceiling beams, as I note the pattern of the grey and black pin striping that matches both the beams and counters. Watching the room with the aid of the wall to wall mirrors I waited for your arrival here in this place you chose, seeing you enter and make your way to where I am sitting carrying with you that old, battered leather attaché case, that you have always preferred to carry instead of a purse as I see you carry it close to your side as you sit down. With a quick study of the look in your eyes I detect a small bit of surprise as you notice the glass of Vichy water I have. Wondering what I saw of the weather outside is an omen of this meeting as spring was battling the remnants of winter? And if that is a symbol of the meeting and discussion that you have deemed necessary to be had at this time here?

Should I stand and greet you as I have done in the past or take you by the wrist away from here? As you stand there in your leather jacket, green blouse, and black jeans all offset by a single strand of pearls. Seeing you note the pads, pens and the digital patterned camouflage binder I have scribbled in as I waited for you, and asking if you remember Mexico or the time in Barcelona as we stood there in Parc Guell looking at the city below? Able to see the towers of the cathedral of The Sagrada Família that tower over the city that we saw in the dusk, standing together overlooking all below us as if it were a private shared universe or poem of frozen human existence,-
As the wing of night triggered by the turning of the twilight begins to cover all. In Mexico we stood on the beach as if we were before a set of invisible gates that hinge on the present and future. Making our way towards the walls of a ruined hotel where the surf was stronger and almost wild hitting like detonations. Seeming to signify that this place was done and no time existed or future remained as you stepped into the shadows, and a bit of distance seemed to hang there as the shadows of the ruins lengthened as the sun continued its passage, with a turning of twilight beginning as the sun’s dark light seemed to set all on fire as it slowly slipped below the horizon.As those first stars that appear slowly turn from white to blue.

Then the summer in Brussels and the time spent in the Belgian countryside. In a wildflower field that was like the time spent in the Texas hill country when it was full of blue bonnets, we used to them to cradle our heads as we lay out there in those fields with the blue black skies full of stars overhead. Fixed over those brightly lit fields and summer days made of heat and blue skies that seemed to stretch out forever. All that was before we met up again in Mexico and Spain and finally here in the Napoleon Court complex at the Louvre. Watching as you order a VSOP cognac and I another Vichy water as I wonder if the blues have descended yet again? Or if you are sitting there across from me with a blue moon in your eyes?,-
Feeling as though I were suddenly caught in the crosshairs of your stare and feel the intensity there, and wishing myself to be back in the rented flat I have on the fifth floor in the Quartier des Ternes or anywhere else. As I see your lip quiver and all comes rushing out of you in a torrent with most of all being said is about us and events, painfully aware of the pain that words can cause along with sharp pleasure that one learns to take in disappointment. Asking if this day is to be ours to have for it has been a long one and will no-one be able to take it away? For life has come a long way since yesterday.

Feeling the sense of all my actions being observed receding now and barely remember catching the metro. As we ended up on Faubourg St. Honore and the Café Blanc as well as what seemed like a chrome trimmed barn. All passing in a blur with images seen that are barely recorded yet somehow managed to climb the worn marble stairs.To the rented flat as exhaustion took it’s toll from the moment we left the Napoleon Court complex in the Louvre, arriving at this coffee scented moment I found myself upon waking,-
And seeing the tuft of hair sticking out from that bunched-up red comforter on the other side of the bed. Which means that all I vaguely remember on that whirlwind train of events that was seen as through exhaustion’s filters. With all actually happened after we left the Louvre and apparently together and managed to arrive in this moment. While the sounds of the bustling Paris traffic can be heard through the open window as the day moves forward. And still not knowing why I had the dream I did and know that you finally got what you dreamed of and wanted, even if it took you on a journey in your quest to sleep in that bunched up comforter in my Parisian flat.

Copyright February 2009 – 4: Timberwolf International LTD.