mardi 29 décembre 2009
vendredi 25 décembre 2009
Joyeux Noel
When she gets weary, try a little tenderness. That is, from Otis Redding.
Today I went to the park with the intention of having my spirit filled with some Christmas cheer. Families, lovers, friends, ponds, doves, ducks, labeled flora , topiaries, and so on. When I was looking into a pond, trying to decide whether I was sad or not, a short old man with designer frames came up to me and said something I couldn’t understand. He said it again, then he asked me if I lived near. I said yes. He said, in an apartment? I said yes, wondering why. Then he asked me if I wanted to make love, have some tenderness on a day like this. Frankly appalled, all I could do was say, non non non, and blink.
Then I walked away, wondering how I could look like a prostitute (in a large grey coat, black jeans, unbrushed hair and no makeup at 3:30 in the afternoon on Christmas day). Do women still require chaperones for a stroll in the park? By the way, luckily, this entire thing is really funny to me now. For my own self worth, I remembered what I was taught about prostitution in French class. It was legal until 1946, and in fine print it’s still grouped in with selling your organs so some people interpret it loosely (no pun intended). French prostitutes are accepted, glamourized, liberated, and of course, sexy, especially in film. On the other hand, I tend to think of real, American prostitutes as being coked up, desperate ‘exotic dancers’ in ill-fitting costumes, trying to make it.
From the classic French films we had to watch, there was a slew of prostitutes who helped a 14 year old lose his virginity and ‘become a man’, there was a prostitute regarded as the first feminist character in cinema, there was a rich blond housewife prostitute who did it for the sheer thrill of it. And there’s currently a Jean Paul Gaultlier perfume commercial involving a prostitute and sailor that plays on every commercial break without fail. Even I can admit, French lingerie is extremely sexy- on screen and on your body. But, that’s about the only time I want to look like a French prostitute.
I think the whole French perception of prostitution reeks of machismo more than that degrading Axe commercial where the guy is chocolate and suddenly has hoards of women after him. If you’ve ever inhaled the sweaty morning armpits of undeoderized Europeans on public transit, you’ve smelled it too. And it stinks! Prostitutes, in my opinion do not ‘choose’ to live that lifestyle in order to make money. Some are very literally forced into it. Others think they have no choice but to do this for one unfortunate reason or another-drugs, history of child abuse, poverty, and often all three. And if by chance some prostitutes do get some kinky enjoyment out of this profession, she should just get into the porn industry or apply to live with Hugh Hefner, because it’s safer and better paid.
After that episode of a fucked up cross cultural encounter, I’ve been reading. I’ve been reading The Hunchback of Notre Dame in French, skimming the big words just like I used to when I was a little girl, and sipping pinot noir. The bells have been ringing in interludes from the cathedral around the corner that looks an awful lot like Notre Dame. Quasimodo and the echoing bells reminded me of the true meaning of Christmas. I called home and felt much love, much better. Though, I still haven’t figured out if Esmeralda is a prostitute or not.
Today I went to the park with the intention of having my spirit filled with some Christmas cheer. Families, lovers, friends, ponds, doves, ducks, labeled flora , topiaries, and so on. When I was looking into a pond, trying to decide whether I was sad or not, a short old man with designer frames came up to me and said something I couldn’t understand. He said it again, then he asked me if I lived near. I said yes. He said, in an apartment? I said yes, wondering why. Then he asked me if I wanted to make love, have some tenderness on a day like this. Frankly appalled, all I could do was say, non non non, and blink.
Then I walked away, wondering how I could look like a prostitute (in a large grey coat, black jeans, unbrushed hair and no makeup at 3:30 in the afternoon on Christmas day). Do women still require chaperones for a stroll in the park? By the way, luckily, this entire thing is really funny to me now. For my own self worth, I remembered what I was taught about prostitution in French class. It was legal until 1946, and in fine print it’s still grouped in with selling your organs so some people interpret it loosely (no pun intended). French prostitutes are accepted, glamourized, liberated, and of course, sexy, especially in film. On the other hand, I tend to think of real, American prostitutes as being coked up, desperate ‘exotic dancers’ in ill-fitting costumes, trying to make it.
From the classic French films we had to watch, there was a slew of prostitutes who helped a 14 year old lose his virginity and ‘become a man’, there was a prostitute regarded as the first feminist character in cinema, there was a rich blond housewife prostitute who did it for the sheer thrill of it. And there’s currently a Jean Paul Gaultlier perfume commercial involving a prostitute and sailor that plays on every commercial break without fail. Even I can admit, French lingerie is extremely sexy- on screen and on your body. But, that’s about the only time I want to look like a French prostitute.
I think the whole French perception of prostitution reeks of machismo more than that degrading Axe commercial where the guy is chocolate and suddenly has hoards of women after him. If you’ve ever inhaled the sweaty morning armpits of undeoderized Europeans on public transit, you’ve smelled it too. And it stinks! Prostitutes, in my opinion do not ‘choose’ to live that lifestyle in order to make money. Some are very literally forced into it. Others think they have no choice but to do this for one unfortunate reason or another-drugs, history of child abuse, poverty, and often all three. And if by chance some prostitutes do get some kinky enjoyment out of this profession, she should just get into the porn industry or apply to live with Hugh Hefner, because it’s safer and better paid.
After that episode of a fucked up cross cultural encounter, I’ve been reading. I’ve been reading The Hunchback of Notre Dame in French, skimming the big words just like I used to when I was a little girl, and sipping pinot noir. The bells have been ringing in interludes from the cathedral around the corner that looks an awful lot like Notre Dame. Quasimodo and the echoing bells reminded me of the true meaning of Christmas. I called home and felt much love, much better. Though, I still haven’t figured out if Esmeralda is a prostitute or not.
lundi 21 décembre 2009
break
I broke the lid of my toilet while leaning it against the tub, trying to fiddle with its broken insides. I exploded a glass plate on my hotplate while a computer technician was fixing my broken internet. I broke a wine glass in my sink. I cracked open a jar, the candle inside got too hot. It’s Christmas break, therefore, I’m broke. I broke a nail. When you don’t have many of these things to begin with, it feels like it matters.
We broke up.
I should have known with all of the omens of things disintegrating around me.
I wrote him down though. A collection of things he said to me, called Simon Says. Brief and funny and more important than he meant. But there is a longer book that has already been written about him. Peter Pan.
God, he really is Peter Pan. And now, here I am, returned back to a room with a small bed and an open window, and the world of adults, feeling like it was just a dream. I even told him once that he was at little imaginary. He has very much disappeared from this place. I guess he’s away with the other lost boys in Never Never Land, fighting off pirates and Indians in his own way. A good story, though more distressing when you feel like you were in it. Actually, it is kind of theraputic though, because now I know who he is.
To steal one of his phrases, “C’est comme ça.” (It’s like that.) The answer to all questions and most of all, why. In English we would probably say “Just because.” No rhyme, no reason. Take it for what it is. It is just like that or like this. You can’t help it or change it because it happened and questioning it is a waste of time, so move on to something else. So much in a simple little phrase.
Lessons learnt: I can still enjoy the carelessness of the imagination- let it in, see it, hear it and even believe it for a while. I can write it down too. But I can also come back now and again to the ‘real world’ and make appointments, have goals, go to bed, pay bills, answer the phone, use an agenda notebook, listen to my parents, buy groceries and know what day it is. Which he, I suspect, is still trying his best to avoid. We are on two different pages of the same old book. C’est comme ça.
Peter: Forget them, Wendy. Forget them all. Come with me where you'll never, never have to worry about grown up things again.
Wendy: Never is an awfully long time.
We broke up.
I should have known with all of the omens of things disintegrating around me.
I wrote him down though. A collection of things he said to me, called Simon Says. Brief and funny and more important than he meant. But there is a longer book that has already been written about him. Peter Pan.
God, he really is Peter Pan. And now, here I am, returned back to a room with a small bed and an open window, and the world of adults, feeling like it was just a dream. I even told him once that he was at little imaginary. He has very much disappeared from this place. I guess he’s away with the other lost boys in Never Never Land, fighting off pirates and Indians in his own way. A good story, though more distressing when you feel like you were in it. Actually, it is kind of theraputic though, because now I know who he is.
To steal one of his phrases, “C’est comme ça.” (It’s like that.) The answer to all questions and most of all, why. In English we would probably say “Just because.” No rhyme, no reason. Take it for what it is. It is just like that or like this. You can’t help it or change it because it happened and questioning it is a waste of time, so move on to something else. So much in a simple little phrase.
Lessons learnt: I can still enjoy the carelessness of the imagination- let it in, see it, hear it and even believe it for a while. I can write it down too. But I can also come back now and again to the ‘real world’ and make appointments, have goals, go to bed, pay bills, answer the phone, use an agenda notebook, listen to my parents, buy groceries and know what day it is. Which he, I suspect, is still trying his best to avoid. We are on two different pages of the same old book. C’est comme ça.
Peter: Forget them, Wendy. Forget them all. Come with me where you'll never, never have to worry about grown up things again.
Wendy: Never is an awfully long time.
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