Young Love

 I witness a young couple passionately kissing then arguing in front of a Renoir. As they talk almost nose to nose, he touches her. Starting with the tip of her nipples up to her throat, flipping a piece of hair that has escaped her messy bun.  Finally resting both hands on her neck and moving them up to her jaw line. She has been arguing- focused on being right and not realizing that this wondrous and intimate touching is temporary. She believes he will love her this intensely forever. That the arguing he finds passionate now will always be intoxicating for him. She doesn't know that with time and life- this will be the behavior he will turn and run from. 

 I'm struck by jealousy. I would do anything to be touched and wanted this way. For a man to see me as a work of art to be discovered. To experience that lovers touch. 

They move on to a Monet. Her hand placed in his back pocket. Snaking up under his shirt to get a touch of skin. She turns to her right kissing him on the cheek. He turns her center and opens her mouth with his hard kiss - his tongue reaching the back of her throat. She shivers. They part gazing eyes and sharing a secret smile.  They hold hands and move to the next painting. 

I want to tell her to drink this in. Lock every moment in her memory. That although his devotion may always be there- this unbridled desire will not. 

But then the paintings mock me. Their beauty and desire is eternal. Although the masters have passed- their passionate lives on. 

Paris - writing

Paris. As I sit in cafes for hours at a time. I've noted the restless metaphysical curiosity, the tenderness of good living and the passionate individualism of this city. There is an invisible constant in this place where an ordinary tourist can get in touch by sitting quietly over a glass of wine in a Paris bistro. But for a writer, the muse of the city forces prose from my fingers in cafes, museums, metros and buses. There is no stillness here. Even in sleep my mind is creating. New stories and revelations appear a force waiting to take form. It's at once romantic, tragic and dramatic. A detour from my normal voice. I am but a conduit to the force.  

In the writers happiest and most pure state of creation the words come through you, not from you.

My life has been altered. I've taken steps to morph, change and try new sensations. The object of my desire is now me. I'm in love with the idea of a creature open to new sensations, shedding the shrouds of my past. 

As with any metamorphosis- I recognize there may be pain, that some will not participate in my cocoon dispersion and will be resentful of my change of costume. 

Paris is changing me. Like at snake shedding her skins- I'm feeling reborn. It's either a new skin or one that has gone unused for most my life. Everyone that loves me knew this would happen. They were excited for me.  That some how a city would change me. They were right. 

Je taime Paris.