The Water is Wide

As my writer's residency in France draws to a close, I'm thinking about the flow of this river called divorce. Where's the damn boat so I can just row across and get to the other side? Everything in my life is changing, flowing, transforming except where I am with Mr. Ex.

The division of our joint assets is a stagnant mess with something that looks like progress poking up out of the depths every now and then, but it turns out to be an illusion.

This bridge across the Garonne is the last thing I look at every evening as I sit outside on our quiet patio in Auvillar. At night it's all lit up and I've ventured across the road to it a time or two. Standing on the narrow footpath along its railing is an eerie experience.

Bridges make great metaphors. From here to there. From this to that. Wife to writer.

I'd just like to make my break from Mr. Ex before it's time to tip the boatman for the last ride to the other side.

I Can Run But I Can't Hide

I've gone on and on in this blog about how I can't stand to be in L.A. because I have thirty-two years of memories of my life with Mr. Ex. It's hard to admit it, but he owns a big chunk of France, too.

France has 100 villages it has designated as its most beautiful and I am currently living in one of them. This past Sunday, I visited another. In my four trips to France with Mr. Ex, we visited two others. That's a nice even split, I suppose. Two beautiful villages for me. Two for him. Except it's hard to possess a village. And so it seems with all of our "assets." There are accounts held in a Trust. Farmland that can't be sold. Accounts that don't mature for years whose funds are unavailable. His capitol account in his law firm doesn't seem to be real either--just some ego-stoking figment that can't actually be turned into cold hard cash or cold hard anything.

If I could live those years of my life over again, I wouldn't invest in any of it. Investing in the future, if you'll "pardon my French" is a bullshit lie.

Invest only in love. When it's gone, there will be nothing to divide.

I see London, I see France, I see Jamie's....

There are various perks to being at a writer's residency. At the Virginia Center for the Arts they change your sheets, bring you fresh towels, vacuum your room, and clean your bathroom. At Vermont Studio Center, there's a serene meditation chapel open 24-7, and wonderful guest writers who preside over small group seminars. Both the VCCA and VSC have talented chefs who lay out dinner each evening in a cozy dinning room where you can hobnob with your fellow artists. People usually come to the table itching to socialize after being holed up in a studio all day writing or drawing or painting or sculpting or composing. It's easy, during a month long residency, to make a new friend or two or if you're an extrovert, maybe even a dozen.

It's different here in Auvillar.

There are only three of us. All writers. We are responsible for our own cooking (except at the Wednesday group dinners) and we share the housekeeping duties in our ancient stone house. We do our own laundry and we don't have a clothes dryer.

So we get to see one another's undies.

I have un petit inferiority complex now...lingerie and writing. http://web.mac.com/jamiecatcallan/iWeb/JamieCatCallan/Home.html

One of these days, I'll have a book and a website. Vraiement! And better underwear.

Writers' Odysseys

An "emerging" writer like myself can benefit immensely from receiving a fellowship to a writers' residency like the one here in Auvillar http://www.vcca.com/programs.html. The opportunity to write most of the day, or all day and even into the night is harder to come by in ordinary life. And being in a new environment in a foreign country changes one's perceptions. New ideas for stories are sparked by being in a new place. If you're someone who can't get away for an entire month, or a writer who wants more of a workshop environment, there's Astra Writing in Greece. I went last spring and it's even better than it sounds.