Flowers at a marketplace in Paris

Street stalls in Paris by the Seine. Some chocked with old books, signed old postcards that can be 50 years old, beautiful anatomical drawings of flowers or fruits or vegetables; their latin names inscribed beautifully in cursive. Little versions of their road signs shiny and heavy hanging, although I didn’t buy any of those things. The books were in french; I can’t read french. The drawings were beautiful but I couldn’t think of anywhere in my home where I could place it where people would look; in the home I was staying in in Paris, there was a anatomical drawing of flowers in the toilet but it belonged there beneath the little creaky window where sunlight streamed in, beside the potted plants. I didn’t buy the road signs either. If I were to bring them home they would just look incredibly forlorn and out of place. Sometimes the best thing you can do is to let a thing be left behind where it is most beautiful, not take it away to a place where it doesn’t belong just so you can possess it as a signifier of memory. Street stalls in Paris by the Seine. Some chocked with old books, signed old postcards that can be 50 years old, beautiful anatomical drawings of flowers or fruits or vegetables; their latin names inscribed beautifully in cursive. Little versions of their road signs shiny and heavy hanging, although I didn’t buy any of those things. The books were in french; I can’t read french. The drawings were beautiful but I couldn’t think of anywhere in my home where I could place it where people would look; in the home I was staying in in Paris, there was a anatomical drawing of flowers in the toilet but it belonged there beneath the little creaky window where sunlight streamed in, beside the potted plants. I didn’t buy the road signs either. If I were to bring them home they would just look incredibly forlorn and out of place. Sometimes the best thing you can do is to let a thing be left behind where it is most beautiful, not take it away to a place where it doesn’t belong just so you can possess it as a signifier of memory.

Street stalls in Paris by the Seine. Some chocked with old books, signed old postcards that can be 50 years old, beautiful anatomical drawings of flowers or fruits or vegetables; their latin names inscribed beautifully in cursive. Little versions of their road signs shiny and heavy hanging, although I didn’t buy any of those things. The books were in french; I can’t read french. The drawings were beautiful but I couldn’t think of anywhere in my home where I could place it where people would look; in the home I was staying in in Paris, there was a anatomical drawing of flowers in the toilet but it belonged there beneath the little creaky window where sunlight streamed in, beside the potted plants. I didn’t buy the road signs either. If I were to bring them home they would just look incredibly forlorn and out of place. Sometimes the best thing you can do is to let a thing be left behind where it is most beautiful, not take it away to a place where it doesn’t belong just so you can possess it as a signifier of memory.

We went in and browsed through books too expensive. I weighed my choices. Audre Lorde or Zizek? Bell Hooks or Michael Ondaatje? I settled for Ondaatje in the end. It was placed in a paper bag with blue bold typography of Oscar Wilde’s quote — I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.

We went up creaking steps, took a picture of the famous quote inscribed on top of the entrance — be not inhospitable to strangers, lest they be strangers in disguise

sat on the couch and thumbed my way through the spines of the old books that weren’t for sale. i spent the rest of the time reading about camus, his politics and how the best and most important writing he did was in his journalism. 

I was in Paris during a time when flowers and kisses were blooming everywhere. Sometimes they were on sale.

One of the many café in Paris.

I asked a Parisian friend what I should do when I came to her hometown & one of her long list of suggestions was “go to cafés everywhere”. We sat in one across the street from the Seine & I remember a man sitting beside us with eyes squinted, smoking as he looked towards somewhere far away from anything within our line of sight. Sam had coffee too strong. I had something I now forget. Used to having my hot teas & coffees in little glass mugs, I found their deep green, red or blue cups & accompanying saucers incredibly pretty. But I don’t find parisian cafés that romantic. They’re too expensive for me to romanticize. All I remember being romantic was the dying day giving us an orange sky; thinking about Owen Wilson in Midnight in Paris walking in the rain because he thinks it’s beautiful, Anais Nin & Henry Miller saying sexy things in french while pressed together under a bridge, Simone De Beauvoir seducing her female students while teaching in la Sorbonne, & me feeling so calm I felt like I was turning into a flower. I didn’t find Paris romantic. But I still found it beautiful. I think I learned from Anais —

"I will not be just a tourist in the world of images, just watching images passing by which I cannot live in, make love to, possess as permanent sources of joy and ecstasy."

Paris, where buildings surrender and overwhelm themselves to the beauty nature can give.

Sand and greens in Tylosand.I remember the one day we went to this beach. We waited about half an hour for the bus, paid $4 for the ticket and took about 20 minutes to reach the beach. There was a fancy event taking place and we walked past a group of adults in crisp shirts and tasteful dresses. Their hair perfect, their voices a low condensed murmuring in the background of our much louder voices. We had ice cream and took off our slippers when our feet hit the sand. Enqi used the shawl she bought in Prague as a little mat for us. Her shawl is now lost, dropped somewhere along the way to Khai’s house not too long ago. The water was icy cold. The boys dipped their bodies into it, but me and Enqi read our books. I lied down reading Zizek through my heart-shaped shades and Enqi was reading Angela Carter under the shade of her wide-rimmed hat. We took a bus later than we bought tickets for. We dropped by the supermarket to buy groceries, including cakes for Enqi’s birthday. We said that we should go back to this beach again one day. It was so beautiful.
We never did. Sand and greens in Tylosand.I remember the one day we went to this beach. We waited about half an hour for the bus, paid $4 for the ticket and took about 20 minutes to reach the beach. There was a fancy event taking place and we walked past a group of adults in crisp shirts and tasteful dresses. Their hair perfect, their voices a low condensed murmuring in the background of our much louder voices. We had ice cream and took off our slippers when our feet hit the sand. Enqi used the shawl she bought in Prague as a little mat for us. Her shawl is now lost, dropped somewhere along the way to Khai’s house not too long ago. The water was icy cold. The boys dipped their bodies into it, but me and Enqi read our books. I lied down reading Zizek through my heart-shaped shades and Enqi was reading Angela Carter under the shade of her wide-rimmed hat. We took a bus later than we bought tickets for. We dropped by the supermarket to buy groceries, including cakes for Enqi’s birthday. We said that we should go back to this beach again one day. It was so beautiful.
We never did.

Sand and greens in Tylosand.

I remember the one day we went to this beach. We waited about half an hour for the bus, paid $4 for the ticket and took about 20 minutes to reach the beach. There was a fancy event taking place and we walked past a group of adults in crisp shirts and tasteful dresses. Their hair perfect, their voices a low condensed murmuring in the background of our much louder voices. We had ice cream and took off our slippers when our feet hit the sand. Enqi used the shawl she bought in Prague as a little mat for us. Her shawl is now lost, dropped somewhere along the way to Khai’s house not too long ago. The water was icy cold. The boys dipped their bodies into it, but me and Enqi read our books. I lied down reading Zizek through my heart-shaped shades and Enqi was reading Angela Carter under the shade of her wide-rimmed hat. 

We took a bus later than we bought tickets for. We dropped by the supermarket to buy groceries, including cakes for Enqi’s birthday. We said that we should go back to this beach again one day. It was so beautiful.

We never did.

Silhouette

The sun setting and making us all faceless. Sam walking on water. The sun setting and making us all faceless. Sam walking on water.

The sun setting and making us all faceless. Sam walking on water.

Beautiful day at tylosand. Beach with sand so soft your feet sink into it. Sand so white your eyes hurt from looking at it. Water so cold I did not dare to dip in. The curl of the day unfolding so slowly you watch the horizon and want to doze.  Beautiful day at tylosand. Beach with sand so soft your feet sink into it. Sand so white your eyes hurt from looking at it. Water so cold I did not dare to dip in. The curl of the day unfolding so slowly you watch the horizon and want to doze. 

Beautiful day at tylosand. Beach with sand so soft your feet sink into it. Sand so white your eyes hurt from looking at it. Water so cold I did not dare to dip in. The curl of the day unfolding so slowly you watch the horizon and want to doze.