…and then I found myself furiously scribbling away in Paris.
I would tote my journal along from the Luxembourg Gardens to every café my
shrinking euro stash would allow to Père
Lachaise cemetery [but mostly] to the quiet areas of the 6th arrondissement that will always be my
own.
In the heart and mind of a fifteen year old who had never
even been to sleep-away camp, this solo summer sojourn meant the world. I
planned on having Paris validate all my dreams of Paris. A place so far removed
from the culture of home that I could not help but create an alternate persona.
Someone who sauntered a little slower, savored even the most fleeting moments, and
perpetually pursed her lips between sentences. Utilizing my French speaking
skills, I spent my free time pretending I was a native parisienne, aiding tourists with directions or in taking a family photo
in front of many a monument [in the age before the “selfie”].
As profound as I attempted to be at the time, I suppose it
could be said that being fifteen anywhere in the world has its moments of
growth, realization, and coming-into-one’s-own. But since I only have my own
experiences from which to draw and since my coming-into-my-own happened to
coincide with a once in a lifetime excursion, I am going to conclude that I
discovered the sole enduring facet of my life as a teenager in Paris: I am a
writer.
Pardon me while I quote myself, but in a school paper that
year, I stated the following: Oscar Wilde
said that, “When good Americans die, they go to Paris”. He almost got it right.
I believe that when good Americans truly live, they go to Paris to find a home,
find themselves, and to find a way back. [Boy did that fifteen year old
know what’s up] But here’s the thing, to an idealist teenager, it seems every
truth will remain so indefinitely and every talent will come swiftly without
life’s inevitable intrusions. I was able to feel at home in Paris; the feel of
pen and paper did not alter simply because I was 6,000 miles away. I was able
to cultivate my creativity because I had the time and I uncovered a generative
place within myself to which I could consistently return. I became more
confident; while I may have felt a little too dark or too chubby under
the Los Angeles sun, in Paris, I was one more Ooo la la away from not making
my returning flight. [Shout out to the European men who consistently walked the
fine line between respectful and kind of odd advances] see post below for more on my views of male/female interactions.
As I was saying, life discovers a way to try and thwart you
from your desired path. I’m sure the fact that for the next seven years I was a
slave to academia and did not even want to read a menu or write a
grocery list had something to do with why my personal reading and writing took
a back seat to more pressing literacy priorities.
It took years to return to Paris-grade Me and I have you,
the L.O.T. Blog enthusiast, to thank for my rejuvenated love of doing what makes
me feel most at home. I may not be able to host all of you in my living room for
bohemian events, but this is the 21st century and the interwebs can
be our salon. We are not the Lost
Generation of our great-grandparents, but there remains a dire need to
collectively share our thoughts. There must be a place where people won’t look
at us strangely for using proper grammar and polysyllabic diction, and where
putting your delusions and ingenuity into words can be valued, praised,
criticized and re-worked. I thank you for this opportunity and invite you, just
like Gertrude and Ernest did before me, to join the conversation.
#writeon
~carter
No comments:
Post a Comment