Two years without going back to Paris. How would I find the old city? The answer: chaotic, traffic-jammed, invaded by masked nitwits running on electric scooters at 20mph on the sidewalk. But Paris will always be Paris. Notre-Dame, the old “girl”, is still there, doing well. The reconstruction is progressing at good speed. (Paris, July-August 2021)
“Fleur mystique”, Mystic flower, by Gustave Moreau (1826-1898). Critics or art historians label him “Symbolic”. I would call him more a Mythology painter. Many of themes are based on Greek or Roman mythology, or oniric subjects such as this “Mystic flower”. Though a favourite painter of mine, I hadn’t visited his house/museum in a while. Taking advantage of the Health Pass, reluctantly handed to me by the French Gvt, I ran there and found the same magic.
Welcome, welcome all, to A Carnival of Color! I’m Rene Rosso 🌹, and I present to you the most colour you will ever see on any catwalk, anywhere. All hail our dahling Art Director Rebecca Budd! Wearing bias cut faux tartan print palazzo pants, with coordinated accessories, she has earned the feathers in her hat […]
We begin making things up by six or seven. Minds of hummingbirds we sip from wells of illusion. Come with me to the eddy of an ever prodding muse to dip our wings in her breathtaking colors.
I Leave as though I am going to work. Instead I walk downtown to meld with the chaotic masses, searching eyes infused with survival. As the morning wears on relentless chatter becomes an undercurrent of whispers that fades with the crowd. The strong scent of sweat and coffee stings my nostrils, clings to my skin. Alien faces are forever etched behind my eyes.
Making my way to the metro I pass the warehouse district. A young addict sleeps against the graffiti covered wall that like her unkempt hair turns golden in the sunset. Her arms are folded around her knees. Awakened from induced euphoria by the nudge of a worn boot she glances upward, her skeletal hand fumbles in the pocket of her threadbare jeans, fishes out a handful of dollars. Glancing in both directions he tucks it beneath his belt and in exchange hands her a small bag. I wonder how she will sleep in the night cold. It reeks of urine here, even the stray dog lifts his feet. I glance her way again, leaving her to isolate to death.
Passing a vacant garden I pluck a flower and playfully slip it behind your ear. From the same garden we share an apple that reminds me of an autumn orchard and a love struck boy whose memory compels me to press my body against yours in search of that trigger, that wild place in my mind that is precious only if it is gone. When you go I can finally empty my mind of the devastation. I know you think it’s crazy but to me it makes sense.
“The evening sun loves her throat and her cheekbones. Her hair the color of cliff grass rises and falls across her face in the breeze” ____ Maggie Stiefvater, The Scorpio Races
As peaceful as the sea birds that fill the palm fronds, we watch the stars sparkle like diamonds against their velvet backdrop. Listening to the sound of ocean waves rushing ashore, slick sea lions glimmer under the cusp of an orange rind moon. The hours pass softly like the sea breeze. We are not tired but exhilarated. Ruffling his hair, I let my clothing drop to the damp sand, motion to him, follow. Together we vanish in the rolling waves.
An excerpt from The Swallows of Capistrano, a collaboration.