I've always dreamt of living in Paris. The City of Lights glowed in my memory from childhood, a beacon that I never understood and never questioned. I followed that light anywhere it led. From my tiny, furthest-point-from-Paris town in the Midwest I did everything I could to somehow achieve(more) Paris. Everything I learned or accomplished was an extension of that dream.
I learned French early on, of course. I had begged my parents for French lessons at a time that most girls were begging for ponies and princess dresses. By the time I took my first French class in high school I was in very real danger of knowing more than the teacher. I also learned to cook, because Parisians can cook. I studied history and art and architecture because they were all inextricable from that city, just as I wanted to be.
It turned out that my personally pursued 'Parisian Studies' made me the perfect liberal arts student, so I majored in English literature at a small college near home. I couldn't afford to study abroad and even if I could have, I wouldn't have had the time: I worked every day to pay for school myself. (My family really had no money to speak of, so Paris was always a very distant dream.)
But finally- FINALLY- at the age of 25, I had a ticket to Paris in my hand. I floated in ecstasy in the days leaving home, my feet never touched the ground. I had gotten a poorly paid job and a small flat, but I would be there. Being there is what mattered- it was the only thing I could remember ever mattering.
I thought that living in Paris would complete my life... on those streets I would be a whole, satisfied person...
In an urban dream I lifted my little limbs to a stranger named Vinny. A lover existed beyond everything the words that expressed. I am actually a human beyond your words. I live like a stranger but I dream of movie stardom and lies. I am a million people(more) at once.
In the shame I see faces that are revered. Little lies being a slight dream that begins as words and drifts into strangers lying and lifting and enigmatic thoughts that drift into thinking.
On Broadway I see those people who were angels that drifted into life like strangers. I feel the sadness words that live in Hollywood, angels live as demons and all that exists isn beautiful.
Marry me, angel. That;s the weds I said to the human who married my lives like a stranger. Electrolysis is something new but something strange. All she wanted was to be loved and controlled.
She was a woman. Sweet angel lips and pretty word. A woman then cannot live as herself. It is strange and curious and scary. So many lives meld together to create this beautiful human.
Death is scary but life goes further then death. She pressed her fingers into mine and there is something deep but also something scary and odd.
This human is worried but she is dying. The role lived further. (less)
I am standing in the middle of a dirt road, stone buildings rise above. A great parade of people dance around me, drunken with triumph and pride and wine. They are laughing and jumping and spinning with each other and children are running all around. Trumpets blare and cheering(more) erupts behind me and I turn to see the crowd parting to reveal four white horses pulling a golden chariot. The trumpeters are dressed in purple garb and so are the bannermen beside them.
A man stands on the chariot wearing gold embroidered purple clothes, and on top of his well manicured head, which he holds high above the people, sits a golden laurel. His face is stern and he does not acknowledge his crowd. He only looks ahead as they shower him with flower petals .
Amidst my awe at the spectacle I fail to see a young boy standing in front of me. He is tugging at my arm with both hands wrapped around my fingers. I look down at him as he looks up at me with big full eyes. He pulls a wooden sword from his belt and stabs it at the sky. I take his meaning and pick him up by the waist and sit him on my shoulders. I cannot see his face but his giddy laughter tell me he his happy.
A mortar shell explodes in the street and there is pain in my stomach. I look down to see a deep red stain in my shirt. The parade disappears and a battlefield takes its place. I am holding my insides in my hands and screaming at the top of my lungs, though I feel no pain. (less)