Off Day- Halloween - Transcriptions of Drunken Ramblings

Tonight i'm going to a bar that I regularly drop by. The last time I was there I was in a weird mental state (they happen to all of us). It was halloween and I wasn't doing a Canadian halloween (generally carnavalesque, costumes, performance, a child's holiday where you can play at children). I had left a friends house and set to the streets randomly walking through the Latin quarter a bit drunk, a bit poor, my last 10 euros in my pocket and rent the next day. Well, I spent 3 of it on more beer (two tall cans of 1664) at the nearest corner store. They call them "les arabs," making me cringe at bit at the overt racism in France (which generally doesn't affect me, its much different from American/Canadian racism). Once they were done, stumbling, I found myself at an outdoor rock concert, the music was good, it was free, in front of a major monument. Cool. Well, it turns out it was a catholic rock concert... I discerned from the lyrics after I started translating them. At this point I looked around me to see everyone swaying and holding their crosses close to their hearts. So, like any good atheist confronted with a cultic conglomeration I backed out slowly. Well, I backed into a line, joined it, and ended up in a Baroque church during a midnight sermon. When I tried to balk out slowly, they wouldn't let me leave ("pardon monsieur, mais tu ne peut pas sortir par ici"), entrance only. The exit was at the other end of the church. The place was packed and silent except for the preacher preaching something about the objective forms of happiness as an antidote for suicide and the confesionnals (or something) along the side walls (little alcoves with giant baroque paintings, and men and women kneeling against the knees of priests). The architecture was fucking breathtaking, really, I guess its a relatively special church (even among Parisian churches, which is saying a lot).

After a period of awkward "pardon"s and "excusé moi"s I got out. Anyways, then I went to my regular bar which was relatively close to cool out. I found a chair and used the last of my money on a pint to nurse and write a sloppy sloppy stream of consciousness.

I wish I could show you how sloppy my writing is in my notepad. I'll transcribe some of it into text, don't judge, these are ramblings!

Its been a fucking random night in Paris. I'm only now gathering my sensibilities.
Even before stumbling into that madness, it felt a bit off.
Why? I don't know, maybe thats why i'm putting pen to paper. Maybe if I let the words flow it'll sort itself out.

maybe if I know what i was looking for.
Maybe then I'd find what it was that I want found. maybe I need to stop looking? maybe it should find me.

the leaves wilt so lightly here, but at the same time they carry a certain heavyness... Too fast to love, no time ebbs, but it flows too...

a cliché

Clichés used to be the everyday reality too much, writing heartlessly, like a brit. Clichés are now, overly told meanderings of the unconscious
surreality,
to this we owe.

a quip of the heart,
unrealistic - emo

and still, I write

I told a friend.

"Art is done, its been done.
the 20th century moderns
did it all."

"I collage, play with the
permutations of whats been done,
cultural alchemy"

"writing, writing could
never be done. A life's experience
is unique."

A half truth!

Maybe, write the facts.
Moments.
A man smokes, the beer fizzes, the people on my left drum on the table, a girl with a sharp smile hides it behind a mask of make up. Narrow walkways push people against my cigarette. They say "Pardon," I can't a look mostly annoyed behind the apologizing face. I smile back but can't tell if i'm grinning.

Halloween.
...

I was in a church, the preacher's voice blended with the echoing walls blended with the christian rock concert outside forcing itself against the walls.
...
A rose peddler walks past, a feather in his hat. Arabian, all the people who work here when the others drink are arabian.
Poor france.
And the poor in france prowl.

Too fast?
To love.
is to breath.
so inhale.
The cigarette
becomes you.
creased lips
it flows from
stinging nostrils.
Breath in.
its becoming.

Love,
and its nuances,
in a cheap halfzware-shag.
substitutted

at a bar full of strangers

too fast?
for what?
to love
is to breathe,
breathe in,
the stale aroma
of a stale bar
Timelessly,
I buy my time
with my last beer
with my last money
I nurse,
it gently
for a place to write
to stall
living/leaving.
Too fast?
To love
is to breath,
so i draw again
at the fresh smoke
lit
off the last one
and I whisper
homages, on paper.
To loves lost,
with each exhale.
To die?
Too young
to die.
And the graffiti on the wall
echo my sentiment.

A pale fire at each
breath
A pale blue smoke
at each exhale.

even streams of consciousness
hide clichées lingering in the
corners.

On lonely nights, who hasn't sought sanctuary in a pint, watching patterns in smoke, listening to Siouxie Sue, heavy drums, and the dissonant organs of a dingy bars stereo.

The guy who sits opposite me, takes a moment, he does the same.
Chaotic convalescence, I think whether I should blog this, in my week off from my routine, vacation - vacances.

Fuck that was hard to read, it takes up entirely too many pages in my notebook too, sometimes only two words to a line.

Anyways, after writing that. I'd realized i was relatively sober, feeling much better about everything, that all the "offness" of the day had resolved itself. And I decided to befriend some people at the bar, started with the person across from me, who ended up drinking with me till pretty late (on his tab!). And practiced my french. By the time I was wandering home along the seine I'd practically forgotten my estranged mental state.
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mp3s:
The Zombies - I Love You
The Zombies - Tell Her No
Iggy Pop - The Passenger
Siouxie and the Banshees - Israel
Joy Division - A Means To And End
Nico - These Days