For the record, I'm skipping over I want to say 3 unfinished, in-the-works, posts. This is coming to you thanks to the antics of my good friends Ctrl C and Ctrl V.
A year ago today I was in an airplane. France. Second time.
I want to say it changed my life. I'm sure that I wanted it to be pivotal. The sad truth of it is, in a mere 365 days a lot of it has become a blur. I guess that's what you get when most of what goes on in any given day goes on in your head and you don't keep a journal documenting. As if I could possibly even attempt.
I am grateful for the people I met, the conversations that were had, the laughs. I may not feel changed and I may not remember the half of them, but I think about these people, those moments often. I guess the truth of it is, it was a wish fulfilled and it didn't fail me. I think the contentment is still carrying me through what would otherwise be an unabated restlessness.
Sometime in my last week or so in Marseille I was heading home, likely from saying goodbye to someone. I was caught in one of those perfect Marseillais sunsets.
I got home. In the forty five minutes that took me, dusk had come and gone. I sat down. Wrote without pausing to think or edit. And now, a year later, it brings me back. This, my ode to Marseille. To France. To foreign skies. To space. To time. To freedom.
City of masts, like skyscrapers. Not to mention the fishing poles, propped up most of the time, sometime held; the urban trees of this city. Cathedrals-la Major-crowning the building facades that contour the port. And other towers, spires. Rooftops. The personality of the city defined by where it touches the palleted sky. People walking the boardwalk, stopping for the sunset. Some taking pictures. Crowds of people on the sidewalk, dining at cafes, restaurants, smoking, sitting. They think they’re watching you when it’s you watching them. The lights hanging by wires from the buildings, a hanging sidewalk suspended in the middle of the streets. Follow the yellow brick road. The bus-people, we of the transport commun. That says it better. For a moment, we share road, breathe the same air, the same 150 square feet. The doors open and we file out, cross paths, bump into each other until we become dispersed amongst the sidewalkers. Like spiders. Dusk. Sunset. Half light, cool breeze, the light smell of the sea, of the air from the middle of the ocean. First by bus, then on foot, to Noailles. The soundtrack changes the the bumping of headphone wires becomes the percussion since the sound of feet have been muted by music. Run by Leona Lewis-almost brings me to tears-becomes Come as you Are by Nirvana. Pick up the pace. People watch me, walking fast. But I can’t hear them and it’s like walking through shadows. La Cure Gourmande-the window covered by shutters and the bum laying down in front, in what would be a picture perfect moment only I don’t have the heart to take his picture. Leaning on a small bag against his sign, on his back, knees bent, he looks just like he is resting, breathing the city in just like me; he breathes a bit deeper I think. Descent into the tramway and after a ten minute wait the tram breaches the concrete surface; the dark night makes a tunnel. Off the tram, music again and I’m looking for the moon to dance to. In my head, perfect turns, on tiptoes. Not ideal in sandals. Or with a backpack. Or with headphones. No moon but I sing anyway. People from their windows, maybe watching, but are they the same that watched before? I like to think so. That they will miss me, the dancing, singing, lost or half drunk shadow who in the daylight dreams of rescuing lost lop-eared bunnies but doesn’t have the courage. Or a home. Still no moon, no ocean panoramic. Yet I feel small. Because one day my feet will be here and the next they will not. The pavement, the cobblestones, the straightbacked wretchedly uncomfortable tram seats, the resounding wall lined sidewalked lined with shards of glass, these things will remain unchanged. It won’t be any different than getting off the bus, off the train. One minute we are together, the next we are going a hundred different ways. Like a spider caught by a powerful gust of wind, I will fly across oceans, a thread flying out from Marseille.
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