PARIS

I'm in love with Paris, it's as simple as that. I can't sleep at night. Her streets are running through my veins, the Seine, like a mercurial barometer, teases me like a sussurating bangle. The velvety promise of spring draws a veil of desire across my eyes, but still sleep does not come. My mind wants to walk a while in those shadowy, willowy streets, their mysterious romance has wrapped my thoughts and sealed the envelope so casually. I'm in love with Paris. Yes, there, I admit it. I want the tendrous smell of caf� au lait to assault my nostrils, the deep, dark espresso pools to waft gently over and through my sleep-dilated pupils. I want to touch the warm baguette, to feel its smooth, silky sweetness sweep over my skin, fingers trembling in temptation at the rush to crunch that solitary crust. I want to wear the Camembert, the Brie, the darkest blues. And, as for "Le Monde", strung out like a beacon upon the carousel, I want the Braille to rise to the occasion and tell me all is well. To tell me all is still interesting, that life's stream is pooling onwards, ever onwards. I want to dance with the magic prose, to leap and twist through clause and sub-clause, to seize the day, to mount the moment and whip the sultry untamed seconds into a fizzing frenzy. I would feel life ticking sweetly in my ear as I watched the slim metallic expos� extend her silver fishnet pins and reach her jaunty head skywards, crushing the haughty horizontal militia of the Champ de Mars. Stilted symmetry, shattering skyline, shuttered song. Or, I could chase cars, play cat and mouse with the twin star of David, warm my hands at the eternal flame if I survive the journey. Tomorrow afternoon, it's on to squaring corners with Picasso and tossing dots with Renoir. Soothing Seurat, breath on canvas, shades of Sunday driving tearing through the soul. And, the caf� is dark, not sombre, but soothing, the table is worn smooth, weathered by the hands of patrons, passers-by, ships in the night. I sit on the wooden bench that runs the length of this little booth, shutter my eyes against the hesitant light from the solitary quadrille, my mind lingering on another. Hemingway might have sat here, I'm thinking to myself. Why is it that so many are drawn, and have been drawn to Paris... Turgenev, Dostoevsky, Gogol, Chagall, Monet, Pissaro, Zola, Dali, Picasso, and what strange recipe of fate made them a list in my life? Brought them together here? Paris, at the heart. Paris, the heart. Paris, in my heart. And that's why I love Paris? Or is it the white steps that lead unhesitatingly upwards to meet the blue sky, reaching beyond the Parisian Taj Mahal... another Heart, another melting heart, another gathering. A gathering of cobblestones and caf�s and canvases. Snakes and ladders, circling and winding, slipping and sliding, silent and hiding, stairs and funiculars, shutters and blinds, shadow- dancing in the mind. A carousel, lights flashing and colours rising, horses cantering through clouds, the old man winds the handle and smiles, kepis and capes, dark and uniform, helpful not forbidding. I love Paris, I can't help myself... but now at last I can find sleep. Sleep in sultry shadows and silent in soft imagery, succumbing at last to the soothing seam of dream-weaving, dream-leaving, dream-pleasing...

 
 
Date: Mon, 17 Mar 1997 22:18:27 +1200
From: Wilma Clark <[email protected]>
To: [email protected]
Subject: Isolated Moments in Time

ISOLATED MOMENTS IN TIME

I have a penchant for going off by myself. It's good to be solitary. Sometimes. Some of my most precious moments have occurred when I have been alone, and some of my saddest. It's almost as if being alone heightens your awareness, your head is untrammelled by it's usual occupations. Nothing to think about, nothing to chew over, just a moment lifted out of time to enjoy. When I was about 22, I took off for my first solo holiday. I went cycling in Cornwall. I was so free there. Just me, my bicycle, the sun in my face, the air on my lips and the rolling hills ahead of me. It was so peaceful. Inside and out. Every day a new picture was cast upon the canvas of my soul. I was perfectly happy to avoid people. It was wonderful not to have to consider others. To go wherever you felt like going, taking whatever road looked interesting, not keeping to a predestined plan. Going at your own speed. Enjoying your own thoughts. Listening intently to the melodic silence. True silence is its own symphony.

My favourite moments of silence come from the desert. Places where I walked with my head upturned. Marvelling at the deep blue cloak of the night sky, clear and penetrating and dark. The piercing boom of spikenard strung out along the horizon like whispering candlelight. The dark silhouettes of palm trees and mountains rising out of nowhere. Everywhere flat, everywhere high. In the desert, in the night, the crickets sing. The crickets sing so loudly. I'd never heard crickets before. Never. Now, I will forever remember what they sound like. There is a special stillness in the desert that you would never encounter in any city. It's like a deep delicious breath of soul. Sometimes the twilight can be more revealing than the brightest hours of daylight. Perhaps that's what sensation is like for a blind person. They feel with their heart.

There was a journey I took in the twilight. I was in company, but I was very much alone. All around me were asleep. I was wide awake. Whilst the others slept, I felt the thrill of the desert creep through my veins. Shadows leapt up out of nowhere snarling at the van I was travelling as it hurtled through the night. Glittering lights sparkled here and there as small pockets of civilisation whispered their "hellos". So quiet and tranquil. And suddenly, passing a border post... bespectacled faces flickering in the braziered glow. A whisper of war, but no gunfire.

In an ancient Crusader city. Alone again. Surf song swam in my head. Wind whipped my face in a gentle fury. Salt spray kissed my lips. Swirling foam upset my stomach. Battlements thrilled me to the bone. Sea wall frightened me, seeming to lack strength, even though centuries hung upon it. Two strangers swamped in a sudden deluge, I laughed at their surprise.

I went for a walk in the mountains. Peace at last. Sometimes it's nice to get away from people. Sometimes it's necessary to get away from people. Sometimes, people make me feel as though I'm shut up inside a paper bag and I can't breathe. I lack sensation. I lack life. I lack.

I was caught up by the sight of a flock of birds in flight. I loved to watch them lift and turn, eventually landing on the cliff, clinging precariously to the side. It was a most thrilling feeling to watch them dive bomb from the cliffside down into the open canyon, so fast and sure, so beautiful.

After lunch, I went and sat upon a rock and contemplated the Dead Sea, like a glassy mirror rippling in the near distance. At my feet an army of ants marching methodically in single file, not in a straight line exactly but in a measured curve, not one deviating, intent on some unobserved purpose, some unknown pursuit, some antlike project. The sun hot beneath their feet just as it was hot beneath mine.

Perception can amplify your aloneness, just as it can amplify your loneliness. When you embrace the whole world, down to a single grain of sand, it's sometimes difficult to belong to a small, limited pocket. You can't let go of the stars when you have sight of them even when your eyes are closed. When you choose to be alone, you can find peace in all the shadows that surround you but when you discover your aloneness in the vastness of the universe, sometimes it is preferable to be at home with a log fire, a good book, and rain at the window. That's the nature of things.

In Ligny-le-Chateau, just outside of Auxerre, there is a Monet painting come to life. The lilies in the stream are creamy layers and the reeds a whisper of something not quite tangible. There is a church in the village with only a few pews inside. It feels old, very old, medieval almost. Inside there is the most profound silence. An open door and an empty room. A full room. The paint on the walls was white and crumbling, the stone floor whispered a melancholy tune beneath my feet. My breath hung back in my throat and my whole body trembled in the tambourine of silence. It was a silence that grabbed you. Seized you. Enveloped you entirely. Pulled you through to another world. The sun shone through a small window, and it was a true ray of sunshine, filtering dust like a solar milky way. Pooling warmth trickling to the floor.

There's spectacular lightning streaking across the sky tonight. I'm just watching and waiting and wondering. The night lights are dancing a waltz with the clouds - what a sight! It's a tickling and a trembling, nought but a fluttering flight of fancy. Dip yourself in magic waters and anything is possible.

What happens when you come face to face with yourself for the first time and you look deep inside the dark wells of your eyes and you pull on your soul?

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