Paris Pt. 4

Oh look, some more Paris essay-eque things:

The Paris Relapse

So you go on with your life like you never saw Paris; like you never ran your hands over the spines of ancient books in those green boxes along the Seine, like you never ran out of a café and left your hot chocolate waiting to catch a glimpse of the Republican Guard, like you never went weak in the knees when you laid eyes on la Notre Dame at night, all lit up and glowing.

And then you open that folder on your computer of the pictures that you took while you were there.

And it's the heat wave all over again.

You close your eyes as tight as you can and it still doesn't conjure up those priceless hours of pure inspiration that you experienced, so you dig out that coat you wore when you saw the l'Arc de Triomphe and even though the coat is long and black and all wool felt and it's August, you slide it over your shoulders and you can smell the cigarettes and the coffee and the bakeries that smell like home, although you can't quite tell why.

And you wrap the scarf that you bought in a little boutique around your neck just the way you wore it there and then something in your mind clicks.

And you declare that you have to go back to Paris; that you have to see the Eiffel Tower one more time and drink little strong coffees out of pretty little mugs; that you will absolutely die if you don't see the golden gates of Versailles again.

TTFN

M.K. Wissler

P.S. I am trying to conjure up interesting things to write on here, but as far as I can tell, I should focus on the fact that I'm having trouble meeting my word count for Camp NaNoWriMo.  Later, okay?

Paris Pt. 3

I wrote two follow ups to those strange Paris essays that I wrote when I got back to the States.  Here is the third chunk:

The Paris Cure

You go home after Paris, feeling exhausted, like someone has kept you up at a party far past your bedtime, but your mind is still trying to process all that you've seen.  In any case, you drag yourself home, falling out of bed in your room above the discotheque that never seems to close, and you get in the car and you take the connection to Amsterdam and stumble through the Amsterdam airport that is really like a city, but all you can think about is Paris.

You think about Paris as you hand your ticket to the attendant, and you think about Paris as you find your seat and you think about Paris like you're some sort of character in a romantic tragedy, and you've just remembered that childhood sweetheart that you swore you'd go back to someday.  And you remember Paris like that childhood sweetheart but before you can do anything, the plane takes off and all you can do is read the Dutch airline magazine about some new line of men's watches.

You think about Paris for about a week after you get back from France, before falling blindly back into normalcy and nearly forgetting your love.  It's like you've gone through a very effective, very painless stint in rehab.

And you speak French in class, and you read that book you picked up from that store in France, and you try your very best to remember that annoying discotheque and that mother and her two sons on the train and how beautiful some people look with smoke swirling out of their mouths like little deadly ghosts.

But it's no use, and you've been cured; cured of your sickness, cured of your addiction, and cured of your love.  And you should feel a huge hole in your chest, but you don't.  It's like it never happened.

Later.

TTFN

M.K. Wissler

Paris Pt. 2

More of that weird Paris essay thing:

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The Paris Love Affair


Paris doesn't stop there. You realize that what you thought was a dangerous virus is actually an equally dangerous yet insanely thrilling addiction that's potentially just as destructive as cocaine; but unlike cocaine, you might get something productive out of this addiction even if it's just a three line poem.

And that's when your addiction turns into full blown infatuation. You start seeing the little things, like how the silent owners of the equally quiet, cozy cafes smile and nod when you apologize for eating pastries from another bakery, or how people may be discourteous enough to smoke like chimneys, but courteous enough to blow the smoke up away from your face, or how the train station security guard on a smoking break directs you to his favorite cafe without you even asking.

And just when you think Paris can't get any more beautiful, you see a mother put her two young sons on a train for the countryside near Lyon with slightly tearful hugs and kisses and you watch as another woman runs to catch her train, her gray cocker spaniel jogging faithfully behind her.

And you think that maybe this isn't an addiction any more than it is a virus, that maybe, just maybe, Paris loves you back.

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TTFN

M.K.Wissler

Paris

So, when I was in Paris, like I said, I was very inspired, and I wrote a little thing.  You should have seen me.  I was hunched over my phone, typing this little thing out.  I've censored it, by the way, but my mom suggested I post it, so I will.

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The Paris Sickness


The inspiration here is so intense it's almost mythical. It hits you like a heat wave right as you enter the city limits. Like a heat wave, insanely hot and going a million miles a minute. It floods your brain like you've just burst a vessel in your mind that until now held all of your imagination, concentrated like a can of soup.

And it only gets worse. You walk from the Seine to the Eiffel Tower dodging the overly persistent venders who walk up to you, jangling their metal hoops strung with miniature Eiffel Towers and all you can think is that you wish you had your notebook or your laptop or at the very least a napkin and a pen.

It consumes you in less than three hours; it seeps through your veins until you just want to open an artery and write in your own blood to get it out of your system.

But you can't. It's not a virus, not really. Even though it infects you and there's absolutely no cure in the world, it's not a virus.

It's an addiction. Because you just know, as your eyes desperately drink in everything you see, that after you leave, you'll be aching to come back. You'll thirst for it until you find yourself back in the City of Light with two thousand years of history at your fingertips.

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TTFN

M.K. Wissler