i hooked up with a french girl. she plays bass and loves David Lynch. i think i just about died. she put her number in my phone and told me to call her tomorrow. fuck yeah paris.
It’s dirty, it’s gritty, it’s raw, it’s real. It’s the wild fucking west. There is no place like this in the whole world. London was a stepping stone, Paris is a monolith. It’s its own separate beast, unique in every way. It makes me feel like anything is possible.
She made me feel idealistic, romantic, like there is more at play in life than just the material. Like it was more than coincidence that we had met 3 years ago for about 10 seconds, and that somehow we ended up in Paris together, and that even though I’d never spoken to her, I felt connected to her. The way she caressed my face and kissed my lips when she was drunk. And told me how long she had been thinking of me for. The fire in her eyes when she found out about her roommate and I. The way she acted like it was all ok. The soft angles of her back, smooth pale skin, under the Parisian sun on a hot day in the Luxembourg Gardens, under the trees, next to the flowers. I felt like a kid again. Like I was 16 years old and these emotions were new. It felt, for a short time, like I could love again.
Obviously, it didn’t work out.
But the fact that I could even feel this way, the fact that, when I woke up in the morning I couldn’t stop smiling and I just wanted to walk around this city and imbibe every part of it into my soul, the fact that I didn’t even want to fuck her… it gives me hope. It gives me hope that there is a better person inside of me. Jeunesse. Avec les yeux grands ouverts à le monde et à la vie. Une fille, à Paris, à tout le monde… c’est tout magnifique.
Graham Dean - Close-Up Kiss, watercolor on paper, 1988
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