1st Arrondissement, Paris
Marie, her friend Paco, and his friend Tabby and I spent the afternoon in Monmarte visiting Sacre Coeur and an exhibition at Halle Saint-Pierre of the French artist, Chomo. Afterward we had another four hour dinner at a bistro in the Belleville neighborhood as it was Tabby's birthday. I love the fact that the French can make a day out of eating. But something went awry on the way home. Maybe it was the oysters or the snails that started the dinner off? Or maybe it was because I didn't have a digestive? Or maybe it was the crazy guy with dreadlocks screaming at me in the Metro following me down the platform as Marie yelled my name trying to keep me from doing anything stupid? Whatever is was, by the time we got home I knew that I was going be sick. And as I sat in the bathtub I started feeling not just sick to my stomach, but sick to my soul about all the writing I've been doing since we've been here, as it's all disgustingly personal and often difficult to sift through, and follows me throughout the day - even on a nice day like this one was - as I try to capture in my mind the ever elusive nature and meaning of what it is that I'm writing. And as I sat in the tub and the sickness swelled in me I suddenly felt intensely vulnerable and exposed by what I've written and I wondered what the point of it all was - putting myself 'out there' like that - and I thought about stopping the writing all together. Then my body shivered and I vomited all over myself. And I felt immensely better. And I realized then, that that was why I would keep on writing - as even though in the end I may be covered in the revolting stench of my own psychic vomit, I'll feel a whole lot better for having gotten it all out.
LOve
Monday, 1 March 2010
Friday, 26 February 2010
Paris
1st Arrondissement, Paris
Throughout the days I hear French drifting through my consciousness - as I sit on a bench on Ponts des Arts and watch the sun set; as I walk through the crowds of people in Des Halles; as I follow Marie and her friend Paco around on Rue St. Honore as they buy meats, vegetables and breads for dinner. And I realize that I love not understanding French, as my inability to understand what people are saying has opened up a whole new world of quiet for me that I love. I'm left alone. I'm not hassled. I'm not bombarded by inane background chatter, that in the States, especially New York City, is constantly pulling on my attention as I try to navigate through the day - language as psychic assault. Here the language is a pleasant backdrop for my thoughts as opposed to an onslaught of mentally fatiguing garbage.
I'm tired of overhearing people on their phones complaining about someone at work, talking animatedly to their friend, or fighting with their boyfriend or girlfriend. I'm tired of overhearing what people want to buy or don't want to buy. I'm tired of hearing people talking about what they do and don't want. I'm tired of hearing people talking about TV and movies and actors. I'm tired of the inane chattering of people taking up my headspace.
LOve
Throughout the days I hear French drifting through my consciousness - as I sit on a bench on Ponts des Arts and watch the sun set; as I walk through the crowds of people in Des Halles; as I follow Marie and her friend Paco around on Rue St. Honore as they buy meats, vegetables and breads for dinner. And I realize that I love not understanding French, as my inability to understand what people are saying has opened up a whole new world of quiet for me that I love. I'm left alone. I'm not hassled. I'm not bombarded by inane background chatter, that in the States, especially New York City, is constantly pulling on my attention as I try to navigate through the day - language as psychic assault. Here the language is a pleasant backdrop for my thoughts as opposed to an onslaught of mentally fatiguing garbage.
I'm tired of overhearing people on their phones complaining about someone at work, talking animatedly to their friend, or fighting with their boyfriend or girlfriend. I'm tired of overhearing what people want to buy or don't want to buy. I'm tired of hearing people talking about what they do and don't want. I'm tired of hearing people talking about TV and movies and actors. I'm tired of the inane chattering of people taking up my headspace.
LOve
Thursday, 25 February 2010
Paris
1st Arrondissement, Paris
We have a neighborhood fixture here on Rue St. Honore. Every neighborhood has one – the eccentric, strange, interesting, crazy or sometimes all of the above character. I saw Rue St. Honore's fixture the first day we arrived. He swished by us down the narrow cobble stoned street in his all black outfit that hung loosely from his thin frame, black leather gloves, sunglasses in winter on his tanned and aging face, his frosted blond hair coiffed perfectly in an eternal wave. I’ve seen him almost every day since we arrived. Always wondering where’s he’s going. Each time I see him I flash briefly into picturing the rest of his life - what does he do to make a living? Where does he go on his walks? Who does he spend his time with?
Today I had a run in with him again. I saw him when I hit the street in the fading sunlight on my way to meet Marie and her friend Paco at the Musee d’Orsay. I saw him coming towards me sauntering down my side of the street with his trademark Risky Business shades and his coiffed blond hair. I sensed him trying capture my gaze and I pushed on towards Ponts des Arts, avoiding his stare, to see the gauzy sunset over the Seine.
On the way home as I stood on the corner in the dark of Rue St. Honore waiting as Marie and Paco looked into a restaurant he appeared in my periphery stopping to talk to me pulling his shades to the top of his coiffed head revealing a purple and blackened eye as he shook my hand and asking “Comment ca va?”.
“Bien” I said wanting to ask about his eye, but not having the words “Et vous?”
“Ca va, merci. Au revoir.”
“Bon soir.”
And he was off, dropping his shades back over his shiner, as Marie approached, asking me if I knew him.
“No.”
postscript: Marie's sister says that he's the fashion designer Claude Montana.
LOve
We have a neighborhood fixture here on Rue St. Honore. Every neighborhood has one – the eccentric, strange, interesting, crazy or sometimes all of the above character. I saw Rue St. Honore's fixture the first day we arrived. He swished by us down the narrow cobble stoned street in his all black outfit that hung loosely from his thin frame, black leather gloves, sunglasses in winter on his tanned and aging face, his frosted blond hair coiffed perfectly in an eternal wave. I’ve seen him almost every day since we arrived. Always wondering where’s he’s going. Each time I see him I flash briefly into picturing the rest of his life - what does he do to make a living? Where does he go on his walks? Who does he spend his time with?
Today I had a run in with him again. I saw him when I hit the street in the fading sunlight on my way to meet Marie and her friend Paco at the Musee d’Orsay. I saw him coming towards me sauntering down my side of the street with his trademark Risky Business shades and his coiffed blond hair. I sensed him trying capture my gaze and I pushed on towards Ponts des Arts, avoiding his stare, to see the gauzy sunset over the Seine.
On the way home as I stood on the corner in the dark of Rue St. Honore waiting as Marie and Paco looked into a restaurant he appeared in my periphery stopping to talk to me pulling his shades to the top of his coiffed head revealing a purple and blackened eye as he shook my hand and asking “Comment ca va?”.
“Bien” I said wanting to ask about his eye, but not having the words “Et vous?”
“Ca va, merci. Au revoir.”
“Bon soir.”
And he was off, dropping his shades back over his shiner, as Marie approached, asking me if I knew him.
“No.”
postscript: Marie's sister says that he's the fashion designer Claude Montana.
LOve
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
Paris
1st Arrondissement, Paris
Visited Pere lachaise. Wandered through the stunning above ground cemetery trying to figure life out with Marie. Our conclusion: back to the drawing board. Scrap the past. Reinvent. Readjust. Follow passion and direct energy into meaningful endeavors. "I like being with you Corey" she said as we exited through the wrought iron gate back into the streets of Paris.
"I like being with you too, baby" I said as she linked her arm through mine.
Sitting at a sidewalk cafe across the street from Pere lachaise, the red eyes of the art nouveau Metro arch watch the white sphere of the sun dissolve into the watercolor blue of the sky. The 20th Arrondissement: people out in force to feel the promise of Spring air; Belville neighborhood?; people seem more down to earth than the trendy, slightly stuffy 1st Arrondissement where we are staying - no shiny puffy ski parka type jackets that have started to drive me crazy as they seem to be the must have garment for the fashionably in-crowd in Paris. Slightly strange woman at the creperie chats me up as I wait to order, thinks I'm French, invites me for a drink despite my nods glances towards Marie identifying her as my girlfriend sitting a few feet from where we stand - Spring is in the air - ah, the French.
Marie and I make plans sipping chocolat au chaud to get out and explore each day from now on.
So much too see... So little time...
LOve
Visited Pere lachaise. Wandered through the stunning above ground cemetery trying to figure life out with Marie. Our conclusion: back to the drawing board. Scrap the past. Reinvent. Readjust. Follow passion and direct energy into meaningful endeavors. "I like being with you Corey" she said as we exited through the wrought iron gate back into the streets of Paris.
"I like being with you too, baby" I said as she linked her arm through mine.
Sitting at a sidewalk cafe across the street from Pere lachaise, the red eyes of the art nouveau Metro arch watch the white sphere of the sun dissolve into the watercolor blue of the sky. The 20th Arrondissement: people out in force to feel the promise of Spring air; Belville neighborhood?; people seem more down to earth than the trendy, slightly stuffy 1st Arrondissement where we are staying - no shiny puffy ski parka type jackets that have started to drive me crazy as they seem to be the must have garment for the fashionably in-crowd in Paris. Slightly strange woman at the creperie chats me up as I wait to order, thinks I'm French, invites me for a drink despite my nods glances towards Marie identifying her as my girlfriend sitting a few feet from where we stand - Spring is in the air - ah, the French.
Marie and I make plans sipping chocolat au chaud to get out and explore each day from now on.
So much too see... So little time...
LOve
Paris
1st Arrondissement, Paris
The weather is breaking towards warmer here in the 1st Arrondissement of Paris on the banks of the Seine. It looks like we might be able to get out and explore. The cold that preceded has kept my toes feeling like icicles which has made exploration difficult. Later today: Pere Lachaise cemetery to remind ourselves that we too will come to an end. We'd better get this shit together. This is the one shot - life. And to think that I've been driveling it away working chronic fatigue inducing jobs! JESUS! There's got to be a better way... But it doesn't look like time is on my side or that it's going to be kind... Looks like it's gonna be a dogfight from here on out. Upgrade skill sets. Follow passion. Struggle. Suffer. Suffer. That's okay, my mind is sharp and my body is still intact... Plus, I'm a biter! The days here are filled with reading and writing - all I really give a shit about anymore. But it doesn't look like this misty Paris dream is gonna last forever. Work looms menacingly ominous on the horizon like a plague as Marie asks me again and again in her little sing song voice, "are we going to have a nice life together Corey?".
"That's the plan baby" I tell her. And I try to picture it... A nice little life... This is it... Whatever it is... It's all We've got...
LOve
The weather is breaking towards warmer here in the 1st Arrondissement of Paris on the banks of the Seine. It looks like we might be able to get out and explore. The cold that preceded has kept my toes feeling like icicles which has made exploration difficult. Later today: Pere Lachaise cemetery to remind ourselves that we too will come to an end. We'd better get this shit together. This is the one shot - life. And to think that I've been driveling it away working chronic fatigue inducing jobs! JESUS! There's got to be a better way... But it doesn't look like time is on my side or that it's going to be kind... Looks like it's gonna be a dogfight from here on out. Upgrade skill sets. Follow passion. Struggle. Suffer. Suffer. That's okay, my mind is sharp and my body is still intact... Plus, I'm a biter! The days here are filled with reading and writing - all I really give a shit about anymore. But it doesn't look like this misty Paris dream is gonna last forever. Work looms menacingly ominous on the horizon like a plague as Marie asks me again and again in her little sing song voice, "are we going to have a nice life together Corey?".
"That's the plan baby" I tell her. And I try to picture it... A nice little life... This is it... Whatever it is... It's all We've got...
LOve
Sunday, 31 January 2010
Paris
1st Arrondissement, Paris
Centre Pompidou
In the midst of the Pierre Soulages retrospective (www.pierre-soulages.com) surrounded by illuminations from the darkness, ripples through time reverberate within. I realize it was here that I stood thirteen years ago trying to make sense of my fractured life and grasped in an abstract painting the transcendence of suffering, realizing that art could someday be my way out of the confusion as the words of Soulages that I read just moments ago call me out of reflection, resonating “It’s what I do that teaches me what I’m looking for.” My whole life I’ve been struggling to understand what it is that I’m searching for. Here, now, in Paris, enveloped in the negatively sublime I realize that writing is teaching me what it is that I am looking for… I am looking for the words to transcend and transmit the strangeness of my life... What I am looking for is the manifestation of my surreal vision of life... Just then Marie appears seemingly from nowhere “Amazing isn’t it?” she says, her eyes sparkling in the light.
“Amazing...”
LOve
Centre Pompidou
In the midst of the Pierre Soulages retrospective (www.pierre-soulages.com) surrounded by illuminations from the darkness, ripples through time reverberate within. I realize it was here that I stood thirteen years ago trying to make sense of my fractured life and grasped in an abstract painting the transcendence of suffering, realizing that art could someday be my way out of the confusion as the words of Soulages that I read just moments ago call me out of reflection, resonating “It’s what I do that teaches me what I’m looking for.” My whole life I’ve been struggling to understand what it is that I’m searching for. Here, now, in Paris, enveloped in the negatively sublime I realize that writing is teaching me what it is that I am looking for… I am looking for the words to transcend and transmit the strangeness of my life... What I am looking for is the manifestation of my surreal vision of life... Just then Marie appears seemingly from nowhere “Amazing isn’t it?” she says, her eyes sparkling in the light.
“Amazing...”
LOve
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
Going to Paris
Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York
I'm burned out on this tomb of a town full of the soulless walking dead. You have to be numb to survive here. I've had enough. I can't go through the motions anymore. I drag myself out of bed. I eat. I drag myself to work through the stone faced crowds. I daydream through work detaching myself from the crushing banality of it all. I drag my tired self back home through the wretched cold and the half dead masses, hunger gnawing at my stomach. She has food for me. I am safe and warm and crawl back into bed to do it all over again. Again. And again. And again. I feel a helpless rage building in me. When will it change? Something has to change. But what? The book has to sell. I stay up at nights working on it. There is something there... a light, a fire at the end of the tunnel... I feed the flame nightly... One day it will burn brightly... She cries when she comes home from work... The hours, the stress, the constant worry of money. I make grand pronouncements and declarations about the future. I see her face fill with hope. I worry. I secretly worry. I feel less than able. I feel less than a man. The old Fears and insecurities haunt me. I put on a face. I go to work. I hold it all in, until finally, one day it gets the better of me. It all comes pouring out sitting in bed on a day off drinking coffee and reading the paper. It spills out on her. The Fears. The Insecurities. I am not enough. She will cheat. She will tire of me. I will fail her just like I did the other women. She can't stand the constant need for reassurance. She dismisses me. I am a child. I am boy. I lash out at her in rage. I say terrible things. I leave and walk the streets through the snow and the freezing wind, smoking, my fingers numb. I am coming undone. I have no where else to go. I have no one else. My face is frozen in shame. The shame tears at me. I can't forgive myself for not being able to provide, for not being secure with myself, with her, with us. I call her. She's quick to pick up the phone, "where are you? Are you okay?" I tell her that I'm sorry. I'll be home in a little while. I just need a moment.
The apartment is sad and uneasy when I get there out of the cold.
We are tense together.
Unsure.
Silence.
And in the silence we make love.
We reassure each other.
But things must change.
We decide that we must leave for a while.
We are going to Paris.
LOve
I'm burned out on this tomb of a town full of the soulless walking dead. You have to be numb to survive here. I've had enough. I can't go through the motions anymore. I drag myself out of bed. I eat. I drag myself to work through the stone faced crowds. I daydream through work detaching myself from the crushing banality of it all. I drag my tired self back home through the wretched cold and the half dead masses, hunger gnawing at my stomach. She has food for me. I am safe and warm and crawl back into bed to do it all over again. Again. And again. And again. I feel a helpless rage building in me. When will it change? Something has to change. But what? The book has to sell. I stay up at nights working on it. There is something there... a light, a fire at the end of the tunnel... I feed the flame nightly... One day it will burn brightly... She cries when she comes home from work... The hours, the stress, the constant worry of money. I make grand pronouncements and declarations about the future. I see her face fill with hope. I worry. I secretly worry. I feel less than able. I feel less than a man. The old Fears and insecurities haunt me. I put on a face. I go to work. I hold it all in, until finally, one day it gets the better of me. It all comes pouring out sitting in bed on a day off drinking coffee and reading the paper. It spills out on her. The Fears. The Insecurities. I am not enough. She will cheat. She will tire of me. I will fail her just like I did the other women. She can't stand the constant need for reassurance. She dismisses me. I am a child. I am boy. I lash out at her in rage. I say terrible things. I leave and walk the streets through the snow and the freezing wind, smoking, my fingers numb. I am coming undone. I have no where else to go. I have no one else. My face is frozen in shame. The shame tears at me. I can't forgive myself for not being able to provide, for not being secure with myself, with her, with us. I call her. She's quick to pick up the phone, "where are you? Are you okay?" I tell her that I'm sorry. I'll be home in a little while. I just need a moment.
The apartment is sad and uneasy when I get there out of the cold.
We are tense together.
Unsure.
Silence.
And in the silence we make love.
We reassure each other.
But things must change.
We decide that we must leave for a while.
We are going to Paris.
LOve
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