jet lag

its almost 3am.  Paris seem deceivingly sleeping.  All her 20th arias spiraled around her heart are pounding to different rhythm.  Vibrating speakers to electric bits or crying saxophones, clinking utensils and glasses, cars horns and motorcycles engines, movies , plays, late night construction digging at the winding streets expending, fixing, connecting -- all in unison and all so separated. 

I can almost touch the loud and soft sounds, the harsh and gentle movements enveloping the old and proud monuments -- standing erect for hundreds and thousands years -- as if always ready to the perfect shot in the perfect spot light.

Here in the 17Th zone of Paris, the more tame and quite area, where the night belongs to the dreamers and the bars to the few, I sit in my new apartment looking out -- listening in -- rubbing my red eyes still, waiting for my body to land. 

I use the screen light of this lap top as my main light though I think I am able to recognize the same dim light from few other windows with open wooden shades and flowers at the its bottoms.  I wonder what they -- the parisians -- think about in these hours.  

Do we all have they same thoughts, same feelings only in different words and different arrangements -- so much is waiting to be learned, so much to dis-cover.   

I miss you my friends -- the night seem long-- there is no Tilden walk tomorrow or Yoko to snuggle with but great smell of coffee and croissant coming from the downstairs bakery soon.