Since I moved to Bordeaux, my routine has been disrupted, to say the least. I started out trying to find a pub to sketch in, just like I would do back home. Couple of problems cropped up pretty quickly.

 

One, art draws a lot of attention in France. a lot. And I'm in a city with the largest population of college students in Europe; smart inquisitive young people, many of them studying art. So it's one awkward exchange after another, where I can't understand them.

 

For another, I miss my pub. I miss my friends and the people I love that revolved around that place. So when I go into another place and grab a beer and start to sketch, a deep sadness seeps in. Like I'm cheating on a lover that I still love.

 

I'm sure it will get better. But for now, the drawings are fewer. And harder.

My first day in Bordeaux, twenty hours of travel (without sleep), trying to shake being a whole day ahead. The hotel was drab and small, and my home for the next month until I found an apartment. I had to go kill a few hours so I could sleep through the jet lag in one go. The first building I found was once a wine storehouse, back when horses hauled casks around on carts. Now it was home to a variety of shops, including a massive art supply store.

 

The entire back half was dedicated to paper. Endless stacks and reams and books of paper of every size and type and press. I immediately found a small book of blank postcards, made from local pulp.

 

That's when I knew I was going to be ok here.

 

A week's worth of clothes, internet access, a camera, books, music, and enough drawing supplies to last a year.

 

I was speaking to someone recently who lost everything in a house fire. She told me it turned out to be one of the best things that ever happened to her. I often suspected this was the case. Or maybe I felt there must be a reason I would sometimes daydream of my home burning down. And I hoped I wasn't an arsonist.

 

I'm going only with what I can fit into two bags. Everything else I gave or threw away. Of course modern life makes that a little less Kerouac than back in the day. I'll have a laptop and a kindle and a smartphone and two cameras and a small scanner and three ipods (they're so small, why not bring a spare?)

 

But I'm also bringing three virgin 8×5 moleskine drawing books, and three 3×5 notebooks. Three 9×12 pads of cold press 120lb bristol paper, and an 8×12 hot press 70lb sketchbook. Twenty (at least) drawing pens of various sizes, a dozen more pencils, and assorted erasers and rulers. I don't really know what I'm going to draw once I'm there, but I suspect I will have significant inspiration.

 

A week's worth of clothes, internet access, a camera, books, music, and enough drawing supplies to last a year. It feels free, light, like I'm open and awake and ready for anything.

 

And I'm glad I didn't have to set anything on fire.

 

"Do you think it's too much," he asked? "Is what too much," the producer replied, without looking up from his clipboard. "All this. the backdrop, the desk, the music. Don't you think we're getting to a point, possibly, where no one will take us seriously?" The producer, annoyed, looked up from the clipboard. "Well sir, we're more popular than we've ever been. The set, the music, this persona we've created, they all help the audience connect with you. Who cares if they take you seriously? We just want them to watch. Now sit please, we're on in 30." A little dejected, he sat at the desk and waited while the producer ran through the checklist.

 

"Cue Lights!"

"Cue American Flag Background!"

"Cue American Flag LCD Left!"

"Cue American Flag LCD Right!"

"Cue Desk American Flag LCD!"

"Cue Background Trumpets!"

"Cue National Anthem!"

"Cue Eagles!"

"Teleprompter Up!"

 

"Ok Mr. O'Reilly, we're live in three.. two.. one…"

 

Then at the consulate, terror. Everything had led up to this, months of preparation and expectation, all came down to this one appointment. I had already quit my job, sold my car, gave notice at my apartment, bought tickets, had a new job waiting for me. But without that visa stamp in my passport, it would all crumble.

 

There were six people ahead of me, and one by one, each failed to secure their visa. Each were declined over some small document missing, or forgotten signature. One girl was supposed to start a job in a week, instead she left in tears. A man had tickets for his wife and kids to fly this weekend, and he was summarily refused visas over a faxed document instead of an original. It was a bloodbath.

 

Then it was my turn. My circumstances were no more dire than any of the others. As prepared as I was, that damnable man would frown at every thing, tap his pen, furrow his brow, ask if I had an original for something that would have been impossible to get, then nod and move on.

 

And then I heard him say, as if from underwater, thank you and it should be in the mail by week's end.

 

One more week, and then Bordeaux.

“Star Trek is Star Wars, but told from the perspective of The Empire.”

 

-Martin Luther King, Jr.

I remember my first. Mr Wiggles. He was a runt, probably would have been eaten by his siblings if his mother hadn't eaten his siblings. Little guy hid under a rock, I thought it showed good survival instincts. He turned out to be the toughest I ever had, even tougher than Bixby. And Bixby ate half of North Carolina before they put him down.

 

Wiggles had a gentle way about him, or maybe we just bonded after I ate his mother. Probably pheromones or something. He would do this little purr snuffle thing, like those, what did they call them, dogs? Like dogs and something that purrs. It was adorable, even with the mucus.

 

Anyway, I just wanted you to know that it isn't how big she is, it's the heart. And I can already tell that your little cutie has tons of heart.

 

So, what are you going to name her?

It is 1976, he is arguing with Alec Guinness over blocking out a scene. Guinness is a bit of a dick.

 

It is 2008, he thinks he used to be a detective. He remembers being pretty good at it.

 

It is 1969, Cassavetes got it wrong, but he agreed to work for him anyway.

 

It is 2003, The memory was cruel. He could put up with all of the things that fall apart in old men, but when the memory started to go he felt gut-punched.

 

It is 2010, he can’t find the damn door. The doorbell won’t stop ringing.

 

It is 1974, and he has just caught his prime suspect in a lie. He never gets tired of that.

 

It is 1986, he recites lines from a funny book. The kid gets a kick out of his glass eye.

 

It is 2011, the woman in the room is nice, he likes her voice. Can’t place her, but he thinks the ring she’s wearing belonged to his wife. She tells him he’s tired, if he sleeps it will all come to him. He closes his eyes, forgets to ask why she was crying.