the pre-established plan for symmetrical harmony and yearly renewal must be anticipated. revolutions come when they do – sparked by strange series of singular impulses well beyond individual control. so it be :
longtime readers know the cyclical motions of these words. every year, summer sun setting in august, tragicoptimist takes new form. for the future from the past. born from estival reflection, or an excess of free time.
but two-hundred and sixty some odd days in, the exodus has come to good end : Paris c’est à moi. now is new home, here is where it is. the decision to stay has been made and all it does say is well.
mixed in the multitude, métro making madness, a mirror finally refracting the infinite life inside. expression and production, possibility. passing the point in Pont d’Austerlitz where she pleasantly reminds mine eyes :
Notre Dame demanding attention, the Panthéon peeks in sight. Montparnasse towers distantly, Saint-Jacques signals Châtelet. Bastille behind, Belleville beyond and Montmartre marries the skyline high.
or endless angles, forgotten bars. the bright eyed young woman serving freshly baked baguette bread. wine walking the waters of the Seine while watching. something and everything insignificant, amplified.
attempting intensely to make memories for all. ripping them from the stone walls. we’ve only got one time to try. thus as such begins this much, a little thing caught beneath my breath : parisian permanence.