Wandering in Paris

Thoughts scribbled down on a bench, in the city

On a bench in Paris the non-writer sits. Free association. Did my soul-mate pass this way, and if so, did he look up? I did, and now I see the tower through the trees and scattered shadows in the coolness, with a breeze. How did this big piece of twisted metal inspire so many artists? What does it mean, what is it for? Magnificent, yes, but not meaningful to me. Triumph of the French economy. This artificial thing is not romantic, on the contrary it repulses me, as it is now a circus piece, with crowds of people lining up for the lifts, ready to witness something that others have told them is special. The breeze agrees with me, as it picks up and loosens some raindrops. A ringing of some bells in the distance. The wind picks up dust, and blows through the crowds gathered on the dead grass, who are paying homage to the twisted metal. Is this the height of culture? But I don’t claim to be an artist, what do I know? Now the idea crosses my mind. Do I see the world through different eyes? Does it require me to ‘out myself’ for a second time? Did I alone notice the people on the metro, and do I find this more interesting than the Eiffel tower?

The little boy, light skin and dark hair. Is that black man his father? He looks tired, disinterested. A few stops later, he gets up and leaves the boy. A new man, Asian, medium height, young, with some rolls around his middle. Sits down by the boy. Deep in thought, traces his mouth with his fingers. In a few stops, gets off. Tall man in a black leather jacket, white, long brown hair sits down. Does the boy acknowledge these passing ghosts?

What is worse: having no mother, or having one who ignores you? The garish smiling faces of hamburgers, French fries, and fairies on the girl’s lunch box seem to contrast sharply with her drugged mother’s indifference. The girl’s smile makes me smile.

Does black nail polish make you serious?

An unseen man behind me begins to sing on the metro. Why does it sound like an old French folk song? Stories and impressions I’ll uncover as I go, but I won’t hold on to them, they are not mine. This notepad is only here to clear my mind, so I can start to see the world clearly.

I’m tired of living in someone else’s reality.

People influencing each other, and not even knowing it. Thank you, stranger. Whether you are gay or not doesn’t matter. And it doesn’t matter if that little black boy on your shoulders is your son or not. You made me stop, and gave me hope.

Seeing a pigeon struggling with a French fry. With a prize so large, it doesn’t know what to do. Walks in circles, shakes it. Finally pecks the fry into more manageable pieces, and swallows them down unnaturally. It looks up at me, asking for more.

I seem to miss having someone by my side, as I wander the streets in Paris, past the statues, facades, and monuments. Someone to laugh with, and hold their hand. The windswept dusty square of the palace echoes my heart. Even the roses here are dust-covered.

Reviews

[[corey]]

Simply wonderful. I love the idea you express here (or at least what I got out of it). There's more to culture and other places than monuments and tourist traps. The living force behind it, the actual people that make up society.

You can learn and experience a deeper connection with a place by watching and interacting with its people, versus standing atop a tall metal structure, staring down at what these people have built. There is no soul to a building.

My favorite line: "This artificial thing is not romantic, on the contrary it repulses me, as it is now a circus piece, with crowds of people lining up for the lifts, ready to witness something that others have told them is special. "

Perhaps it's because I just finished watching "Dead Poets Society", but I think this line struck a chorde. Do we truly appreciate soemthing because WE get feel it, or because the masses have deemed it so?

Again, very nice.