Richard Wright, Peter Matthiessen, and Max Steele on the quai opposite Ile de la Cité.
Paris Youth Culture: France, 1950s
This outfit is perfect.
My latest blog obsession: www.alex-closet.com
Her English translations are quite clunky, but even if you can’t read the French in her posts GO LOOK, this is everything I want to BE.
just thoughts (get back to work, kasia)
My stomach is tearing itself to pieces. Oh I so want this job in Paris. I’m overqualified (but just to live in Paris for a year before giving into the real world, can you imagine?), and if I could just get the employer’s support for a work permit: boom, I’m in. Punk-ass Polish embassy, all I want is my EU passport, and it shouldn’t take me over three years to get it.
I think the only time I’ve truly experienced heartbreak is when I’m separated from a city (sorry, various boyz from my past and present). I was looking through some photos of my 21st birthday spent in Paris with my friend Felix. It’s actually entirely possible to believe that this was over a year ago. I look like a whole different person. I’m thinner now. My hair is shorter, and it’s blonde. Physically, I’m more comfortable in my own skin, but mentally, I’m far more anxious and stressed and perpetually exhausted. Time, time, time.
the Sunday morning of my twenty-first birthday in Paris, almost a year ago. i still don’t know through which arrondissement i found myself wandering, but i would never want to find out or try to recreate that morning. it’s perfect as it was, now crystallized in a rare state of happiness in my memory.
I’m In Paris With You
Don’t talk to me of love. I’ve had an earful
And I get tearful when I’ve downed a drink or two.
I’m one of your talking wounded.
I’m a hostage. I’m maroonded.
But I’m in Paris with you.
Yes I’m angry at the way I’ve been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess that I’ve been through.
I admit I’m on the rebound
And I don’t care where are we bound.
I’m in Paris with you.
Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre,
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysées
And remain here in this sleazy
Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.
Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There’s that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I’m in Paris with you.
Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris.
I’m in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I’m in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I’m in Paris with … all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I’m in Paris with you.