It’s been a super long time since my last post, and things have progressed as they always do. I have a new computer, but I still don’t know how to use it and our relationship is tense. I would appreciate anyone who can tell me how to access caps lock on a chromebook. It’s not where I think it should be. Anyway, I am fully moved in to my (furnished and therefore requiring very little actual moving) apartment in Paris. I’m not sure that you can really call it an apartment because it is more of a tricked-out bedroom, complete with sink and shower. I am currently trying to cook a quiche in the microwave/oven that is in here, and am only now downloading the instruction manual, which means that this quiche will turn out like all of my other quiches: not quite right. This is not important.
Paris is wonderful, of course, and I feel so lucky to be in the position that I’m in. I’ve also decided that this is a good time to take my blog in a new direction. Not that it has much direction, but still. These past weeks I’ve found myself using poetry as an outlet for my creativity and I will be “publishing” it here. So I’ll go ahead and apologize preemptively for that, but I’ve gotten good feedback from my two most important critics, Megan and Abby, so I have been emboldened to take the next step: whoring out my blog as an experimental poetry sounding board.
But first, I would like to regale you with photos of my neighborhood and the things I’ve seen. However I’m having a lot of trouble finding images from my phone on this insane computer so here are a few instead of the onslaught I had prepared.
Megan said that I am probably receiving divine inspiration from the ghost of Gertrude Stein (whose former building I live in,) which is why I am suddenly producing a bunch of poetry. I don’t want to do her ghost a disservice and claim that our work is linked. I’ll let you, the reader, decide what’s what.
Update: I’ve burned the quiche.
Here are two poems from my recent prolific catalogue. One lighter one more serious. Both based off of true events.
To the man
To the man who plays music
On a wireless speaker in public.
Who do you think you are
To decide that we all want to listen to “Senorita”
At the Tuilerie Gardens.
You are drunk with power,
You despotic fuck.
I thought I saw you on the street today,
In Paris, walking by.
Heading home, then there you are.
On the Boulevard Raspail.
You’ve never been to France, I know
You’ve not been on a plane.
But just the same, “it’s him, it’s him.”
My heart whispers to my brain.
He had something of yours
That made think that it could be.
His insouciance, his joie, they’d say,
I’d offer just a “oui.”
I stopped to gape and then of course
Realized it wasn’t true.
But I thought of all the things I’d say
If only it were you.
That I’m sorry, that I miss you.
That I remember every day.
That you made me love everything.
We walked, we ran, we’d lay.
I’d say that I lost everything
Try to make you understand
That when I think about it now,
I can feel you in my hands.
But it’s too late now
Our time has passed.
There’s nothing we can do.
I just keep walking and after all, that French dog isn’t you.
So I wrote this poem, an ode to you.
You’ll never hear it, but I tried
To say that after all these years
When I got home I cried.