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The Final Final Final Conclusion to Paris Deux

The Baite

Come live with mee, and bee my love,

And wee will some new pleasures prove

Of golden sands, and christall brookes,

With silken lines, and silver hookes.

There will the river whisper runne

Warm'd by thy eyes, more than the Sunne.

And there th'inamor'd fish will stray,

Begging themselves they may betray.

When thou wilt swimme in that live bath,

Each fish, which every channell hath,

Will amorously to thee swimme,

Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

If thou, to be so seene, beest loath,

By Sunne, or Moone, thou darknest both,

And if my selfe have leave to see,

I need not their light, having thee.

Let others freeze with angling reeds,

And cut their legges, with shells and weeds,

Or treacherously poore fish beset,

With strangling snare, or windowie net:

Let coarse bold hands, from slimy nest

The bedded fish in banks out-wrest,

Or curious traitors, sleavesilke flies

Bewitch poore fishes wandring eyes.

For thee, thou needst no such deceit,

For thou thy selfe art thine owne bait;

That fish, that is not catch'd thereby,

Alas, is wiser farre than I.

-John Donne

Part of going away is the rediscovery of missed pleasures. Sitting on the couch with my cat as purrs so loudly her whole head vibrates. Staying so late after hours at F's that Scott, the bartender, orders breakfast from Viande and we all sit there silently munching on cheeseburgers and omelettes. Even lying on my couch watching my latest selection from Netflix (currently: The Big Lebowski, The Royal Tenenbaums, and Red Dragon). Often times in the midst of these moments, I wonder could I give all this up? Could I be happy without my movies and books, my familiar bars, my usual suspects? If I left all this behind, even my dexterity with language, would I be happy?

My mother reminds me on the phone that "Paris is a place for vacation, not a place to live." I myself have said that it would not be a good place for a disabled person to live. And New York is? In idle moments I think that my fantasies of running away to Paris are better as fantasies. The reality of living in paris would be disappointing and harsh. In the Wild Duck, Ibsen put forth the idea that each person has a lie that is essential to his/her being. He called it, predictably, the life lie. For me, I have so few illusions left. That I will ever be loved, nope. That I will someday make it out of this job, not really. That what I do actually matters, no way. That I would be happy if only I could live in Paris. Perhaps this is the dream I need to live.

But I hate going home to that apartment filled only with books and movies. I drink and read and talk to my cat not because I really enjoy it, but to ignore my loneliness. In the dark alone at night, I put on one of the t-shirts Henri gave and I try to imagine what it would be like to be on Henri's boat. There would be the sun, and I could swim all day. In the morning we would drink good coffee from bowls and at night we would be rocked to sleep by the waves.

"And I know that I could happy be,

if it was just fish, Henri, and me."

Bad Bunni posted at 2/16/2005 01:25:00 PM |

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