Archive for June, 2013

I want to live in London. Where I will picnic at Saint James’s on cold days; wrapped in a light pink scarf that has short French words in cursive on it. Oui, mon, belle, chat.  I’ll carry my black coffee, always the size of my palm, and I will, this time, smile wide at handsome strangers on bikes. Those days I’ll spend pounds mostly on bread, and I will share it with fish and ducks and squirrels that come up to my hand and ask me how my morning has been only to run away before I answer them. I’ll salute Buckingham and stone-faced Queen Victoria; run my fingers along the gold and black, pretending the Queen is there whether or not the sign tells me so. I’ll visit The Globe once a week until my very dreams are Shakespearian, and I’ve memorized the royal-coloured patterns adorning the stage ceiling of the theatre, and my feet’s blood stain the stone ground for the sake of every other part of my body’s joy. I’ll say lifts and dodgy and quite and lovely, and when I am standing between the quaint city, oh lovely little land torn between the modern and archaic, I will never stop imagining: Who else stood in this spot and heard this music that is playing now?

I want to live in Galway, near Quay Street, where I’ll spend afternoons eating spicy burgers with pineapple, and Banoffee pies in a shop where an entire wall is covered in a hazelnut-colored map of the world. In light pencil I will secretly mark every spot I have traveled to by writing the initials (no more than four) of my favorite thing I saw in that place. Next to London, for example, I’ll write SJP. When it rains I will write about it and drink coffee, no sugar no cream; taking it when it’s bitter and black and real. I’ll have a tummy from my pint of Guinness every evening, but it makes people think I’m local so I don’t mind. After laying 2 euro coins on bags worn by harps and cellos and violins, I’ll sink into the grass in the evenings, by the lime moss, and bite my nails and take off my shoes and say Cheers to the locals next to me as they leave. We’ll open up our conversations with Lovely Day, isn’t it? And tourists will sit down next to us, thinking a parade of boats will go by, when really, we are just sitting because it’s another day.

I want to live in Paris, where I’ll put on a spot of red lipstick and a black skirt when I run down the street to grab a baguette. Where I’ll watch the city never from the top of the Eiffel Tower, but from the bottom, lying on grass under the deep black as the French Fourth of July makes tourists and locals alike let out an exaggerated, glittering breath. The air will sing mostly from signs that encourage the bold and soft to Play Me, I’m Yours. I’ll learn advance French from sepia-stained, well-lived books I buy from vendors on the streets by Notre Dame, and every day I will walk a little further until I reach the gates sweeter than the gold ones in Versailles when they’re under the direct sun, and I will close my eyes and run my fingers over the locked keys, until I find one to stop at; then I will open my eyes and see the names and whisper sweet prayers of restoration to their love, and please make it happen tonight, whatever it need be, under all the lights in a hidden and warm spot.

But really I want to live in a place where there is no such thing as not having enough money or not having enough energy or never being bored.

I want to live in the familiar fragments of my mind that soak in the light in Paris and glorify the dirt as rustic age; that make the scent of the sweat of the locals sweet because what’s brand new to me is not to them. I want to live in the fragments of my mind that justify escaping from the idea that in each spot I live, I will be deeply hurt by people around me one day, and the ground will still cut me if I fall on it too harshly, and I will still be in danger of manslaughter and thievery and tragedy and disappointment and no’s.

I want to escape to be missed, to be wanted by the people who know me as I am. I want to change the way people perceive me as I was, by creating a new “was”.

I want to live in a place where it’s all poetic as it sounds like it could be because I have chosen to succumb into making it so, and where another language sounds refreshing because you have an excuse to hear what you want to, rather than what you need to.

Where coloured money feels like play money and doesn’t seem to count, and where mistakes will be erased by faces washed away through time’s slippery forgetfulness.


This is where a heart that does not understand home, wanders.


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And as we stood going back and forth in motion, we created layers of cream on liquid ocean.


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Ireland is captivating.

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