Finding myself waking at the break of day to a coffee scented morning here in Paris, and propping myself up on an elbow under that red comforter as I look around and breathe in that rich coffee smell. And 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. And I am finding myself recalling the meeting we had yesterday at the Louvre. And remembering those smells of fresh bread and black tobacco in the air, with the sound of the traffic nearby.

And finding myself also recalling parts of the conversation we had there in one of the brasserie 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 in a pattern of grey and black pin striping, which matches both the beams and the counters, and the waiter’s aprons and the matchbook covers. Sitting here waiting for your arrival in this brasserie you chose. And watching the room with the aid of the wall to wall mirrors, as I see you entering and making your way to the table I am sitting at, and seeing you carrying that old, battered leather attaché case. The one you have always preferred to carry instead of a purse, and watching 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 when you notice the glass of Vichy water I have. This has me wondering from what I saw of the weather outside if it is an omen of some sort of this meeting, and the discussion which you deemed to be necessary to be had at this time here? Here in one of the brasserie in one of the sub-levels of the Napoleon Court complex. As spring was battling the remnants of winter above us.

Wondering if I 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 over the table in your leather jacket, green blouse, and black jeans all offset by a single strand of pearls. And noticing you taking note of the pads, pens and the digital patterned camouflage binder I have scribbled in, as I waited for you. And after what seems like an eternity I find myself asking if you remember Mexico or the time in Barcelona as we stood there in Parc Guell looking at the city below? Where we were able to see the towers of the cathedral of The Sagrada Família that tower over the city that we saw in the dusk, as we stood there 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 began to cover all.

And in Mexico we stood on the beach as if we were before a set of invisible gates that hinge on the present and future. As we made 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. And again 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 there was the summer we spent in Brussels and the time we spent out in the Belgian countryside. In an alpine looking wildflower field that was a reminder of the time we spent together in the Texas hill country when it was full of blue bonnets, and Indian paintbrushes, as 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. With the constellations which were 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? And feeling as if I have been suddenly caught in the crosshairs of your stare, and being able to feel the intensity of it. And finding myself wishing I were back in the rented flat I have on the fifth floor in the Quartier des Ternes or anywhere else. And then 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. And being painfully aware of the pain that words can cause along with sharp pleasure that one learns to take in disappointment.

And finding myself asking you 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. And now feeling the sense of all my actions being observed is receding now and I can 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 quickly passing in a blur of images seen that are barely recorded. Yet somehow we both managed to climb those worn marble stairs, up to my rented flat as exhaustion took its toll from the moment we left the Napoleon Court complex in the Louvre. And having us both arriving at this coffee scented moment I found myself upon waking.

Looking over 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 seen through exhaustion’s filters. With all actually having happened after we left the Louvre apparently together and managed to arrive here in this moment, as the Tao directed us.

And the sounds of the bustling Paris traffic can be heard slightly muffled through the open window as the day continues moving forward. And still I have no idea why I had the dream I thought I did. And I do know 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 red comforter in my Parisian flat.

Copyright February 2009 – 4: Timberwolf International LTD.