life—actually:

Timelapse

I watched a video of Paris at night that I took during a recent trip there with Jason (@jasonsanders). The timelapse ran all jittery from my handheld recording, and it struck me with a kind of trepidation - a realization of how time moves and the quality of its traces.

He came to visit me in London for ten days after we spent over two months apart on separate sides of the Atlantic (plus the whole chunk that is six time zones of Canada). As part of the tail-end of his visit, we went to Paris for three nights: A somewhat-cliche romantic getaway of sorts (and a cost-savings decision as it was cheaper for him to fly through CDG). But, maybe it was also secretly an attempt to prolong our time together - go to a third place, that wasn’t London or Vancouver, a “no-man’s land” if you will; a city neither of us had been to and one we could explore without the constant reminder that one of us lives here and the other one doesn’t.

However you break down the ten days, the visit wasn’t long enough. Or rather, the time we spent together wasn’t enough (would any length have been enough?) The visit itself was long enough - if it were measured by the richness in experiences shared, sights seen, emotions felt. But the time flew by.

And then after he left, time stood still.

Still like a torturous pendulum stuck in stasis, tugged to one side unable to swing back. The train ride “home”, I felt frozen in time. Just kind of numb, drained from our goodbye, (which had, to a sad extent, begun soon after we said hello). It felt like an eternity, moving between the Bakerloo stops. Or more like a never. Completely unmotivated, deflated, and ungrounded, underground.

lapse (v.) from Middle French lapsfrom Latin lapsus “a slipping and falling, flight (of time), early 15c., or lapsare “to lose one’s footing.”

As I re-entered my life again and walked into my flat, time found its pace again. Back from the cozy mirage of our handholding-in-the-streets-of-Paris-where-we-don’t-know-anyone-and-the-days-are-forever and into the real-life of familiar places and faces and to-do’s in London. The tears ran again, in due time.

Luckily, I found the supporting, festive, positive and smiling faces of my dear roomie Tara and her boy Bradley who gave me hugs on the steps, offered wine, fed me lasagne, and answered my silent need for distraction by putting on a funny movie. (I can’t even remember what it was we watched…but it did the trick and passed the time.)

Now, I’m back in a more regular pace of things. Moving a bit slower as I have a pretty nasty cold, but moving nonetheless. Back on the job prowl, or at least planning my escape, moving towards something that makes or will make my time here worthwhile…not being there.

In all of this, I have come to moments where I question why I am here in London at all, eight time zones away, spending time away from those I love most in pursuit of something that seems less and less defined. Not hearing news about jobs I applied for has me waned and looking for new directions - new (cheaper) adventures - Edinburgh? Sri Lanka? Bali? Silence? New worries, distractions even.

Some would ask why not back to Vancouver, too, if it aches me so to be apart. Though at times, I slip, out of weakness and frustration, J’s encouraging words and the support of a few of those closest to me, bring me back to higher ground. Sometimes when I’ve forgotten what I’ve set out to do, they remind me of my previous convictions, which were much stronger in my mind under the September sun with a blank slate ahead. Their support - and especially in the face of my own lack of clear knowing at times- is incredibly enlivening. Enough to shine some light on a dreary London day, enough to scribble out my self-doubt and deprication and give me back my footing.

And of course in between all the activity that keeps me occupied here and moving at a “good pace”, I spend time back in time… remembering and reminiscing, which gives new tones to everything here (whether for good or for bad). Just started going through photos of our trip, and this video, which brings me here - and there.

I watched it on loop, and it looks as if some recurring dream, a memory I couldn’t set aside, yet sort of generic enough that it doesn’t feel totally like mine or very personal even.

Sped up as the timelapse video that it is, the clip captures much more than appears in the 4-second clip. I don’t know how long memories are… at times reduced to little snippets of pure feeling and nothing else..other times omnipresent in their enormous all-engulfing weight; but they all spring from single deep-reaching moments (we won’t ask how long moments are).

moment (n.) mid-14c., “very brief portion of time,” from Old French moment (12c.) “minute; importance, weight, value” or directly from Latin momentum “movement, motion; moving power.

And this moment, friends… is one on the Pont Alexandre III, where I watched the Eiffel Tower flashing its lights into the Paris skyline at the top of the hour, its fog light circling the shores of the Seine, with Jason next to me rubbing my cold fingers, and it feels like only yesterday and a lifetime ago.

Kimia’s bed at the W hotel, Leicester Square, Jan 27, 5:09pm

standing on the edge of a bridge deck with you. (things I miss doing with you)