Lentement j’enlace Melody….

It is Ecstasy.
The Radio is on.
The Sound of Gainsbourg’s manly vigorous voice of his.
It is natural, clear like water, vivd like rainbow colors, and echoing beautifully like an Excellent Vinyl record, spinning around and around under a needle.
A really thin needle placed in the middle. pushing and turning the record around and around. Everything else turns around as a result. 
Gainsbourg’s throat is like a turntable, when he spills out tunes they echo between four walls.
It is Midnight.

Magic always happens since Cinderella lost her shoe. Magic continues to Happen until this moment.
She was lying on the sofa, her head was spinning. Just like that vinyl record. She had several red wine glasses. maybe more than several. It was that buzz,
that kind of buzz that, makes everything so slow just like when Gainsbourg counts till fifty six, seven, eight, or whatever …

He hugged her on the sofa, he was charming, and hugged her like Gainsbourg hugged the melody …

Lentement j’enlace Melody….

She wanted to make love, sometimes i wonder how someone can make love… why do we say make and not create..
She created bits and pieces of love that, she was under the influence of Tour Eiffel glowing outside the window, Gainsbourg’s hauntingly beautiful melodies and those slow, well studied, planned, balanced strokes.

She kissed him. their Lips were locked and Sealed.
She lingered at him, stroked his body, and moaned ..

Her voice, her moans were filling the silent parts of Gainsbourg’s song…
She was creating Love..

Her hair. Some times Hair do speak, and react, Hair spread around the sofa, sometimes on the floor, other minutes on that tiny green table, Her hair was exploring some part the room that night.

They were on top of each other, glued and put exactly in place, like Leggo, but those leggo were made of flesh and really messy hair.

To be continued….

Next Stop.. Je ne sais pas

Deleting and typing…
Typing and Deleting.
This is how I start every thought now a days.
Delete and typing.
Looking at the screen..
Pausing..
Then deleting words again.
I wish things that happen to me could be deleted easily just like virtual thoughts, non existential ideas that get erased immediately from an illusional computer screen.
Tiny digital particles that form words and letters in order to make sense of, can be erased, evaporated and never seen again..

On that particular sunny day in Paris,
I didn’t want to find my way home.
How do I enjoy myself in Paris, you ask ?
I like to step out of every station in the metro and walk.

I like to walk,
it is like deleting possibilities,
Erasing a possible future,
Moving forward …
It is always a good idea.
It makes you sweat,
Feet hurt and
You realize
You own time.
I never was in control of time, but i was able to control the flow of my thoughts jumping out of my head every time the metro stopped…

Where am i ? How did i end up in Paris ? Why am i here, Last time i was in the train, i was on my way home from East 44th and 2nd avenue.

It was snowing and the subway floors were slippery, An old lady was playing tarot cards, placing them on her lap, while the train shook to its core, moved and some of the cards fell on the floor that smelled of urine, foot steps and cigarettes.
The Metro stopped.
I hear echos in French
“Bastille”.
People got out
the train moved again..

Back to East 44th Street.

Where was i ?
I don’t want to think in English again.. otherwise my thoughts will translate itself back to New York. Is it strange how language can interfere in our identity and thoughts ?
What if i think in Arabic, will it take me back to Beirut ?

What is Beirut to me now ?

Roads of possibilities ? or endless funerals

Beirut saved me so many times.

Beirut I love you

Beirut I Hate you. Fucking Hate you. I love you, Hate. You

Someone once asked me. It was Midnight in Montmartre, in an intimate small bar, it smelled of oysters, My friend’s giggled and words echoed in my ears in French. He was buzzed and Happy, Another friend She is a Married Soul asked me. What is Paris to you ?
“Paris is like a Spa” I said
Three giggles. 2 glasses of wine and an empty oyster plate.
I saw someone staring at me from a distance, He was in his 50’s, little bit edgy, completely bohemian, No body noticed him. I stared back at him, He reminded me of a the Image i have of Gainsbourg. The Kind of Paris i want to live in forever and maybe never wake up from.
He randomly asked me to sing for him.

Him : “Sing for me”
Me: What do you want me to sing ?
Him” Je taime moi non plus” I can help you
Me : Why me ?
Him : i can smell love in you

I was not dazed or dreaming, but the chilly cold weather snapped me out of it. And found myself walking away from Him.

Train stops, My body shakes
“Concorde”….
People step out.
The metro stinks. But i can only smell love..
my thoughts fall on the floor like Crystal particles, as the train moves again. My brain gathers what was scattered.

Where am i ?
Which stop ? where am i supposed to get off ?
Oh yes Madeleine Station

I have 13 euros left in my purse. What should i do today.
I shouldn’t forget to photograph the tower.
Buy the Gainsbourg vinyl records
buy the cheese for my mother, that nutty spicy cheese
Oh i should message my cousin we are meeting in an hour.
ok,
Looking in a map
How to say ..
“Where is this station” in French ?
A man looks at me. He finds my confusion “cute”
he smiles, i stare innocently and return to my crumbled map.

I find it difficult to translate my personality perfectly in French.
But every personality has a flaw, maybe one or two
maybe more
I imagine if i speak in a foreign language
i could erase all my flaws and start over…
A different language, a filtered personality
I can change a name, a belief or even an attitude
I don’t know what “Fuck” means in French I spent 7 days in Paris and never said it until my cousin told me i can say “Merde” if i want to… but i didn’t
It is like being addicted to smoking, i was addicted to Cursing back in nyc every step, every block was sugarcoated with Fuck and Shit.
Now Paris, changed that..

To be continued ..