I have been listening to Claude Debussy’s Clair de Lune for three days straight. Over and over and over and over. There’s something about this song that brings me to a very sacred, dreamy place inside me. Back to Paris. To Karen. To Rue Rimbuteau. To the ghosts in my head that are still strolling up and down the rue Saint-Jacques on the way to the Violon Dingue. To sitting in my tiny apartment in Les Halles, during the summer of ’89 dreaming up dreams of Africa and Les Sables-d’Olonne.
I am now certain that I will return to Paris this coming Spring or summer- an old lady. It will have been 20 years since I’ve been back. That’s a lifetime. I know it won’t be the same and that is what I dread. I dread going and erasing everything and everyone I’ve carried with me for all those years and turning them all into something dirty and profane.
Dirty and profane.
It’s like the memory of S. All those years you carry with you this wonderful, sacred feeling for someone and then one day, in a blink, it’s undone, and something else takes its place. And no matter how hard you to try to get it back, you realize that it’s lost forever…