"December in Paris"
October 28, 2011
This is a fiction. It’s the beginning of a story. I have been thinking about creating a small, eloquent and succinct book that has chapters that will be one paragraph long. Maximum three-page chapters. See if I can tell a story this way. See, if I can hook a reader this way. This is a much differnet mood than “April in Paris.” Here’s a first stab:
December in Paris
What I would like to do, is fly to Paris, with you. And walk the streets of Paris, with you. Purposely place umbrellas aside. Ignore the December drizzle as we meander. Look at art. Eat, and drink wine. Look at more art. Eat, and drink more wine. Sit in cafés with fogged windows and talk about Canada, about Picasso, and love, and the mountains. We’ll sit in other cafés and talk about the world, about Modigliani, about all that is ephemeral, about television, books, writing – oh, writing – we could talk for hours about the writing, about reflected humanity, about Simone de Beauvoir, about the struggles of truth.
At night, we crawl into bed, exhausted – make love by enfolding each other gently – the smallest touches, the most delicate line of a finger tracing the surface of skin. There is no desperation in this loving. It is grounded in time. There are only the small questions of skin, scent, and eyes. Even though Paris has heard it all, we whisper. We become a beautiful refrain – one that is immediately sad but if you listen – if you really listen – there is such hope – there is a belief that anything is possible. At three a.m. we watch the shadows on the ceiling – marvel at the dim quiet of Paris at three a.m. When we are asleep, Paris slips into the room and pulls the covers up, tucks us in. She pauses to brush a strand of hair from your face. It’s as if she’s done this a million times before. And in the morning, around the corner in café Les Deux Magots, we’ll read the papers, and we will talk about everything and anything – anything but cancer. What I would like to do, is fly to Paris, with you. Walk the streets of Paris, this December, with you.
2 Comments
1. Paulette had this to say: Nov 05, 2011 ~ 09:10 ~ #
Dear Thomas, ironic that the sorbet deals with your mom, long passed over, my dad passed over 28th oct. and a friend sent me this poem without knowing about my dad. There are ghost arms & minds reaching out. XOP
Prospective Immigrants Please Note
By Adrienne Rich
Either you will
go through this door
or you will not go through.
If you go through
there is always the risk
of remembering your name.
Things look at you doubly
and you must look back
and let them happen.
If you do not go through
it is possible
to live worthily
to maintain your attitudes
to hold your position
to die bravely
but much will blind you,
much will evade you,
at what cost who knows?
The door itself
makes no promises.
It is only a door.
2. thomas trofimuk had this to say: Nov 06, 2011 ~ 15:37 ~ #
Jesus that’s beautiful!!! Thank you.