Part 5: Paris in the Last Moments of 2009

My last day of 2009 was spent largely in forced penitence; in genuflection before a large porcelain urn, into whose depths I consecrated the ashes of my prodigal, penultimate Parisian evening. That all sounds nicer to me than saying that I awoke on the 31st December with la tête de bois, which in turn sounds nicer than hungover, horking, selling Buicks, or any of these, which in their turn sound literary and florid next to the bare reality of the situation, in which I was brought to my knees - retching and sweating, stomach twisting painfully - spitting out tiny amounts of yellowy bile. It took long minutes of painful exertion to produce even that meager yield, and the product never seemed worth the effort. It was New Year's Eve, and I knew that many people would be repeating my experience the following morning. It seemed fitting: The New Year is often symbolically pictured as an infant; What better way, then, for ex-revelers to enter 2010 than curled up helplessly in the fetal position?

All of this is to say that I don't have too much to say about New Year's Eve. I was able to rally for a party that evening where I, chastened by an unpleasant morning, pursued a middle path of moderation. Tant mieux... I remember the party, and next morning was miles more pleasant than the previous one.

But that's not really what I remember about New Year's in Paris.

Two days before the dawn of the New Year, I was in a giant cemetery. On the cusp of a grand and conspicuous beginning I was contemplating a thousand ends, and the monuments those ends inspired. Père Lachaise cemetery is the final resting place of thousands, whose names range from the illustrious (Wilde, Chopin, etc.) to the hilarious (Sextoy), all of whom have a attained a certain kind of immortality, and perhaps the only kind we can hope for. Anyway, to be remembered is good enough, I suppose, though I often wish I could live forever. This I wish because I find that life is precious,

...and never more so than now as we,
my love, in disregard, in hubris, in our youth,
whisper like the wind between the
gaunt, immobile forms of ghosts.

How they must envy us, or would if they could!

"What oppotunities have they, who lay to waste
vast stretches of their days, and wait
for things to come, which come and pass, and they
while tremble-ing debate
both sides - every side - and wait
while chances pass that I would seize
if I were in their place!"

That's how I imagine a ghost would feel, anyway, though I doubt they exist. There's a song by one of my favorite bands, the Dismemberment Plan, which reflects the same sentiment:

"I dishonor the past being so loose with my time.
I could stand accused of high crimes, in the court of the dead."

On the other hand, I start to wonder walking among monuments erected for the likes of Wilde, Balzac, Chopin, etc... Perhaps they know that to waste time, as I do too often, is punishment in itself - though the lesson be ever learned too late. Perhaps they are resting peacefully, glad to be dead, having fully lived their lives. I mean, Jesus: Will I ever learn to approach the conviction of an Heloïse or Abelard, or compose a tune as serene as a Chopin Nocture? I hope I will. But one must learn by doing, and I can't be timid. Anyway, I'll keep you posted.

I offer you, with in-discriminant love and affection, belated well-wishes for your New Year. I hope it has been going well for you, and that it continues to do so. 

That was my vacation in several parts. Thank you, as always, for reading.

Here's Rebecca, with flowers for Chopin. 

Coming soon... something more current...