The Louvre

I wonder what Hemingway really thought, what he didn’t think to say – if that feast really never moved. Whenever I go to a large tourist city I feel obligated to see every sight, walk every bridge, all that shit. Is that what it’s all about? Snapping a photograph at every turn, thinking about posting it online before taking a next breath. I don’t know, I suppose it’s all relativity.

“Did you see that?”

“Did you do that?”

“No, but I met people, I ate lamb for dinner at 10 while the sun went down in the heart of a buzzing Parisian intersection with a bottle of red lust to end it, staring into the eyes of a woman I met hours before.”

I wrote a letter to my little brother, on the postcard was a sort of pin up girl that had her emerald dress falling off, holding her tits, looking back with a smile. I think of  Cormac who is away from Seattle for the summer, riding horses, and working on a ranch in the steep wild mountains of Wyoming, and receiving that postcard that I drunkenly wrote up one night. On the postcard I wrote about sitting in a café, buying another flight to another foreign land. I told him the people were funny and the most of all that the women were beautiful. I hope it painted a picture of it all, the typical romantic bullshit so the so-called dreamy cigarette butt town lives on in someone’s mind, and he’ll someday seek to lose himself in the gentle rhythms of some Parisian women’s dancing reverie shadowed eyes, not thinking of the next moment but only the happening of now.