Time has an annoying habit—it crawls like a garden snail or tears through the sky like a Super Hornet, the fighter jet that just howled overhead.
Virginia Beach. Past midnight. Bound for Paris.
Almost packed. A little overwhelmed. I have annoying habits, too. Endless to-do lists flicker across my mental screen. I take a deep breath and pull the plug. Brain-TV goes static—leaving me staring into the abyss above and within:
Envisaging, doubting,
Wondering, pondering,
Brooding, obsessing,
Questioning, guessing,
Craving, wishing,
Yearning, fishing
For a moon in the dark…
Thoughts, like Germanic tribes on Roman borders—you can’t ward them off forever.
Paris. Half of my soul is already there, gliding over its nocturnal terrain. I wave to the gargoyles of Notre-Dame Cathedral—towering above the city, jaws agape, spitting rainwater as if they’ve had it with everyone’s nonsense. Timeless stone beasts watching over centuries of human drama. Beautiful and practical, now that I think about it: rainspouts guarding the cathedral’s foundations—aesthetic marvels and humble plumbers, preservers of stone and storytellers.
Isn’t that what clothing is? It adorns. It shields. It speaks. Symbols and statements stitched into form—garments broadcasting messages to the world. Narratives worn close to the skin.
I finish folding a couple of my tees. One of them reads: “NOBODY KNOWS WHAT I’M UP TO, NOT EVEN ME.” Fresh out of print—something I created on a whim.
Outer roads, inner landscapes.
I keep drifting over cobblestone streets, bridges, buildings, and monuments—layers of history and human imagination. I anticipate the stories they’ll share… traveling stories that travel. Stories lingering beneath the surface without a clear beginning—a Homeric intrigue of unexpected nascence:
“Tell us this story, goddess, daughter of Zeus, beginning at whatever point you will.”
I glance at the books besieging my shelves, a guitar perched against the couch, and the tees surrendered to my bag. Two stray thoughts run into each other in the chaotic ballroom of my mind and… click. They start to dance.
This is how the Brooding in Paris project began—words traveling from page to thread, transmuting into unexpected images.
Watching them unfold felt like a remix of The French Connection—only here, the high-speed chase is after meaning, and Gene Hackman is an existential vagrant trading his badge for an espresso.
Now, I wasn’t just packing clothes. I was packing ideas. Curiosities.
And I couldn’t wait to hear what the gargoyles had to say next.
From page to thread — a story you can wear
