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It's interesting to catch yourself in irrational moments. I went to Paris in 2000 for my friend, the poet Doug Oliver's funeral. I feel like I was there quite a long stretch although it must have been only a few days. I had been to Paris a lot around then, for work & because it happened, & I didn't feel like or feel the need to sightsee. I walked around all day & when I got tired would stop either for a coffee or to sit in a churchyard. One day I also bought a pair of shoes. Do I remember that everyone was aghast that I'd been shoe shopping? They were expensive & very French in that way where they were either totally amazing or totally ridiculous. Of course I thought the former. They were very comfortable—until I wore them for more than 5 minutes. Someone called them insect-skin but I can't remember more than that what they looked like. Greenish? yellowish? tan? Who did I give them to? Why did I spend all that money without even really trying them on? Grief chops at you in funny ways.
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