I wanted to celebrate Bastille Day (aka la fête nationale française) from afar this summer by sharing a few photos taken by—or of—me during the several (seven in total, I think) I was fortunate enough to spend in France. Truth be told, the majority of these were spent watching the fireworks from the balcony of our humble flat which, happily, had a view of the Eiffel Tower—and therefore the best light show the city could offer. I guard my French politics close to my chest (having only had a taste of their system) so I don’t have much to say about this holiday. However, I’ve decided to use the occasion to finally begin sharing pages from my Parisian journals. I call these my “Metro Journals” because they were smaller in order for me to cart around a city comfortably—even in evening wear—and because I ended up mostly using them while riding around on the metro…
Note: A few of the entries I eventually translated into French { with the help of my then partner and excellent fellow poet writing An Ominous Mistake } such as this first one—in which case I will share both the English and French versions.
« A Paris, l'ancien Paris se cache comme un mythe au-dessus de nos têtes. C'est une ville construite à partir d'histoires autant que de pierre.. L'histoire d'être délicieusement seul. L'histoire de tomber amoureux de soi-même. Paris est le balcon d'ou on peut regarder le reste du monde tourner. Le bleu toits tissés ensemble comme un drapeau usé et drapé sur nos épaules semble refléter le ciel. Mais le ciel d'ici est également violet, aussi rose comme une barbe à papa. On entendre presque la musique d'un carrousel venant de l'intérieur des nuages. Si vous fermez les yeux, l'air a le goût du sucre sur ta langue. Si Dieu avait jamais un jouet préféré comme enfant ce serait sûrement Paris.. Paris, la toupie. Paris, la scène d'un spectacle de marionnettes capricieux. Paris, le ballon qui n'éclate j'aimais. »
“In Paris, the old Paris hangs above our heads like some myth. It's a city built from stories as much as it’s made out of stone... The story of being deliciously alone. The story of falling in love with oneself. Paris is the balcony from which one can watch the rest of the world turning. The blue rooftops woven together like a worn out flag and draped over all of our shoulders seem to reflect the sky. But the sky here is also purple, also pink as cotton candy. You can almost hear the music of a carousel coming from inside of the clouds. If you close your eyes, the air tastes like sugar on your tongue. If God ever had a favorite toy as a child it surely would have been Paris... Paris, the spinning top. Paris, the scenery for whimsical marionettes. Paris, the balloon that will never deflate.”