Today is Bastille Day. My aunt and I went to the Eiffel Tower Plaza to watch the most impressive fireworks show I've seen next to the time I ate mushrooms on the Fourth of July on the beach at the Santa Cruz boardwalk. La Toure Eiffel suggests the the tower is a woman and tonight, even in her steel stillness, she danced in colors, lights, and fire to the sound of opera, symphony, and at least a million people. And then, if it couldn't be anymore beautiful, a shooting star lit up behind the explosions.
Last night I met a bartender whose family is from the town that my family is from in Guatemala. The village is tiny. I smelled terribly of tobacco and smoke but she liked me well enough to give me free drinks and refuse my tips. Tre belle.
What strange part of human engineering did the universe mistaken to have given us minds that miss other minds? Im surrounded by decrepid monsters of beautiful buildings that don't themselves have minds at all but instill both depth and intimidation on my drunken strolls about Paris. Perhaps that is where ghosts come in. Walls catch light of prefuse moments in time and trap them there to reoccur continually in odd forms. Do those haunted walls miss somebody?
I've been reading Mark Gonzales' book ¨Boken Poems¨. One of the first stories is about how he was grounded by his parents once and his homies called from a party to brag about how some chicks invited them to a party and the World dudes were there. The next day he goes out skating and runs into the same dudes who ask him to do a trick for them. His breaks his foot doing so and is told he wouldn't be able to skate anymore. Crock'a shit that was right?
I've had three people insist that I let them borrow it. I hope they enjoy the chapter called ¨Poetry is for Pussies¨ but for sure not until I am finished with the book. One of my friends didn't even know that he wrote at all.
Anyways, I took the book from Everyday. I was there a few weeks back when I noticed the book in the bathroom. I always knew the book was there by the colors but never by the image on the cover, not particularly striking me at all. I began to read it but stopped to watch Spacely get caught up by the boys who wrote him off a ticket for skating (fucking rat bastards) so I left the book and swore to return simply to keep reading. It only came to one more visit to the shop right before I left and I decided that I couldn't continue without its influence- so I took it with me to Paris. I know, I know, fucked BUT IT GETS OK becaaause...
All right, so I had the book in my bag when I met up with this most certainly pleasant skater and artist Corrine or as everyone calls her Coco. I told her about the book and even showed it to her. She took a picture of it and posted it. Leaving the subject we then continued to drink at this punk bar called UFO bar and counted the shots the bartender was taking. By the end of the night we calculated that she must have had at least 15 by the time we left, leaving our certain number at 10 to use the bathroom and watch the world cup match. We got smashed with her friends while things got very German out as people paraded the streets. We left the bar and walked by the canal where I met this group of babes I'm setting up a shoot with. We stayed at her friends apartment by the canal. In the morning we woke up all in party scum like good fashion- still drunk, fully clothed, me passed out in some weird side room with just my belt off? Fuck, so we stumbled out, went to my aunts where my tia bought us helluv pastries and made us a good coffee set in her studio. We talked about the book again and how I'd be sure to finish it as quickly as possible to let her borrow it. Coco flipped through it a minute, then again switching subjects, and in a couple hours shes was off to the train to go back to her house in the 11th.
Normal right?
After a failed attempt of visiting a cemetery outside of paris and an interesting pass through Paris' Chinatown district (so good) I arrive back at the studio to a message from Coco in a screen that was
all ready up...
COCO: Guess who I felt into in the metro (she meant fell.. so cute..)
I imagined perhaps a mutual friend or someone we were with the night before.
I click her page and lo and fucking behold...
SHE POSTED A PICTURE OF MARK MOTHER FUCKING GONZALES AT A PARIS METRO STATION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
LIKE......... REALLY?????
Fucking A... What seemingly impossible beauties this world is capable of. Endless floral possibilites.
When I went to explain to my aunt the gravity of gravity and that of the moment, I pulled out the book and looked at the cover much more closely.
Pictured is a hot pair of lips and below it a frame of an Airfrance airplane. I flew airfrance straight to Paris from San Francisco.
I had never even noticed it before.
*******
I have always loved that sentence...
Endless floral possibilities.
Endless floral possibilities.
Endless floral possibilities.
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