La Vie Bohème
(Doing Things As Though You Know What You’re Doing
When You’re Doing Them)
I used to be Catholic.
I was Catholic for three years.
Father Williams took us to see The Exorcist when it was showing at Cinema 21. He laughed hysterically through the entire thing.
I was baptized at St. Mark’s. As I approached the font, the bishop, in his most important outfit, gestured at me. He dipped his old fingers in the holy water and made the sign of the cross on my forehead, then again at the base of my throat.
In Paris, I am stepping down the spiral stone staircase deep into the earth, circles after circles after circles. No signs to tell you how far of a descent. We enter the equivalent of the green room, before the crypt, with stories on the walls and historical pamphlets to fill your fingers with, it gets colder, I’ve planned ahead and am wearing my rosary around my neck (because anything involving death means you’ve got to prepare yourself for the inevitable onslaught of spiritual mess). I step into the corridor and the damp ceiling of the caves is familiar, ever since the caves in Germany when I was five caves have felt like familiar territory, comforting, silent. Silence like the kind of muffled silence I imagine exists in a padded, carpeted room in the basement of a cathedral or hospital or psych ward or funeral home or womb. The wall to my right, I realize, is not composed of stone but of bone. Skulls and crossbones. Those skulls are browned, as though they basted them before arranging them. I run my fingers along them and wonder what time they will break into Disneyesque song and dance. All is quiet. I am
Alone in the chapel with Father Williams.
“Are you sure there’s nothing you want to confess before you leave us?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure there is nothing you want to get off your chest? You don’t know when you may next have a chance to confess. It could be two years. Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Well.”
I am acutely aware of my own skeleton. The inscriptions in the crypt are in French and Latin. Some Body is telling me the Catacombs exist because of the plague, and they ran out of manpower, willpower and space to bury the bodies. Some Body else is telling me that the Catacombs exist because of the French Revolution. I’m clutching my blue-beaded rosary. The ceiling is dripping but it doesn’t drip on me. So many skulls. I stare right back at them and try to decide who they were.
I felt suffocated. There was a sign asking me to please not touch the bones. Why would I want to touch the stained bones? I couldn’t breathe down there. Upon my re-birth into the light of day, all I wanted was water. And a church.
The Glitter of Tourism
(1985 – 2003)
The glitz, glamour and glitter of Tourism was much beloved in America. She was famous for spicing up the Hollywood industry and enjoyed a long and illustrious Disney career. A memorial service will be held at 2 p.m. Monday at the Moulin Rouge, with burial following at Sacre Coeur. She was preceded in death by her parents, Colonialism and The Thrill of Large Crowds. She is survived by her husband, Romanticism, her children Quirky Guide Book, Travel Writing and College Kids Backpacking Around Europe, and her sisters Money and Marketing.
Visitation will be on Monday from 10 a.m. until time of service. Please, no flash photography. Food and beverage prohibited. Informational brochures available for only ten Euros. Sketch artist will draw a picture of you next to the corpse of Tourism for free (it’s for his portfolio. Donations demanded.) Keychains, posters, and t-shirts for sale
during reception. Please do not touch the body of Tourism. Restrooms down the hall and to your left. Please use the escalator. Please keep the line moving. Free notebooks and pencils available on your right so you can immediately chronicle the magic of your experience. Please hold still for photo. Photo will be available on the Tourism website until 5/6/04. Please use this confirmation code to access your photo. Photos available in matte or glossy formats. For an additional forty Euros, photo available in black and white. Thank you. We look forward to seeing you again.
In the Louvre, it wasn’t the painting of the Mona Lisa that really got to me. The Mona Lisa was too small for the giant room they gave her, and too difficult to see in front of the hoards of Japanese tourists with digital cameras and video cameras and cell phone cameras and disposable cameras. I only got a glimpse of her. I remember hoping to feel something when I saw her. I remember hoping that maybe the paint would sparkle. She looked like every Mona Lisa I had ever seen in any textbook. I don’t even remember her all that well. But I do remember the Japanese tourists; their camera flashes were so bright. In the photo album, later, I wrote “An old painting nobody cares about” for her caption.
I saw Monet’s Water Lilies. I don’t remember.
Another painting I saw was … I don’t remember.
I saw a Rodin sculpture and that was good.
At Versailles, I saw the sculpture garden. I liked the sculptures more than any painting I saw. I also liked the gold.
I don’t really remember about art.
Homework: Fill in the blank.
1. The Mona Lisa made me feel ____________ (overwhelmed, underwhelmed, confused, unaccomplished, pretty)
2. The Eiffel Tower was ________________ (impressive, phallic, hard to climb, a must, cold)
3. The Chateau at Versailles is a perfect example of _________ (having way too much money, romanticism, the good life, how to use as much gold as possible in your home decorating, impressive garden hydraulics)
4. The Moulin Rouge is not ______________ (a safe place to hang around after dark, cheap, in a good part of town, easily accessible, romantic)
5. The Seine is an excellent place to _________________ (have a bottle of rosé, learn how to stand on someone’s shoulders, cry, fall in)
6. Notre Dame ________ (is beautiful).
Sometime after my nineteenth birthday, I bought a Beta fish, a Beta fish and I named her Medusa. She was beautiful. I don’t remember why I bought her, I do remember that a lot of French was spoken that I did not necessarily understand. Something about how often to feed her. I bought a glass bowl for her, set her on top of the VCR, and that was her spot. I would greet her every time I came home, talking or singing to her as I did the dishes.
After a month of solitude, I decided that Medusa was lonely and needed a friend. I knew almost nothing about the Beta fish; I was too preoccupied with my various Parisian commitments, being a nanny, not going to French class, neglecting my homework and concentrating on the men in my acting class.
Daily Schedule – Paris, 2003 – 2004
0900. Awake
0930. Metro
1000. La Classe de Français
1300. Fin de La Classe de Français
1330. Dejeuner (Lunch)
1430. Fin de la Dejeuner
1545. Metro to the Tisserand’s
1550. Get the Dog
1555. Run with Dog to Pick Up Romain from School
1556. Dog Slows Down
1557. Encourage Dog to Hurry
1558. Get Angry, Sweat, Receive Disapproving Looks for Running on the Sidewalk
1559. Romain’s School is Three Blocks Away
1600. Romain’s School is One and a Half Blocks Away
1602. Arrive at L’Ecole de Romain.
1603. Romain emerges. Commence long, silent walk home
1630. Arrive Home. Prepare Le Snack
1635. Pretend not to Notice Romain is Regarding Le Télévision
1640. Announce Le Snack.
1700. Regard Le Télévision with Romain, Pretend Not To
1715. Suggest Le Télévision Be Silenced
1720. Demand Le Télévision Be Silenced
1725. Silence Le Télévision
1730. Encourage Romain to begin his Poésie Homework
1735. Demand Romain begin his Poésie Homework
1745. Sneak Chocolate Cracker from Cupboard
1800. Fin de Poésie Homework. Commence Preparation of Le Dinner
1810. Sneak 2nd Chocolate Cracker from Cupboard
1820. Cook the Zucchini the Wrong Way
1822. Receive Wrath of Adrien for Cooking the Zucchini the Wrong Way
1825. Commence Correct Zucchini Preparation
1830. Run Romain’s Bain (Bath)
1845. Announce Le Dinner Time
1850. Le Dinner.
1900. Romain – Bain – Water is Too Hot / Cold / Water-y
1903. Alter Bain to Meet 10-Year-Old’s Specifications
1915. Dominique Arrives Home
1920. Get out of Apartment as Quickly as Possible
1927. Smoke Cigarette
1933. Read Candide on Metro
1948. Purchase Beer from Local Superette
2000. Arrive Home. Open Wide French Windows. Light Incense. Smoke Cigarette. Put
On Music. Drink Beer. Gaze out Window. Turn On Le Télévision.
Write. FIN
Medusa’s selected friend was blood red and named Zeus. He was the perfect color complement to Medusa’s cerulean blue. Zeus came home not at all like babies, on the Metro in two bags, a plastic one enshrouded by a paper one. I was nervous to handle the bag so delicately on the Metro – I was nervous to do just about anything on the Metro besides sit and stare quietly into the abyss. The Parisians are very particular about what you can and cannot not do publicly (yes to walking smoking talking smiling giving directions no to eating spitting swearing or looking bad, mon dieu), and the palpable air-tension was a manifestation of the general attitude (pas d’arabesque). Albion, my liaison from England, on the subway, drunk at two in the morning, once alerted the rest of the car that I was an American and that they should watch out.
I brought Zeus home and took him out of his paper bag. I held the plastic bag up to Medusa’s bowl so they could look at each other. Betas have raptor-like flaps on the sides of their faces that fan out whenever they feel feisty. Medusa’s face flaps flared when she saw Zeus. Zeus wasn’t paying attention because I he couldn’t see anything from within the distorted confines of his plastic bag. I speechified to Medusa about how Zeus was going to be her friend and wasn’t it going to be lovely. I dumped Zeus into Medusa’s bowl.
Once Zeus reoriented in the water, he and Medusa flap-flared and started circling each other like two wrestlers. Oh, how wonderful. They’re mating.
Then, like when Dominique slapped Romain without remorse -
Medusa darted forward at Zeus, striking him right in the face. Zeus retaliated by head butting Medusa between the eyes. They both moved with lightning speed, darting around the bowl, striking with their heads, lashing with their fins and inflicting general savagery on each other. Clearly, this was not sexual. This was the killing field. I saw a lonely piece of red tail drift through the water. Holy God, I thought, they’re actually going to murder each other.
“Stop! No! What are you guys doing? Stop it! Stop it now!”
I take the two steps into my kitchen and grab a mug. Frantically I am dipping the mug into the bowl where the two fighting fish are using their cute little faces as bludgeons, tearing off scales and fins, churning up the water, creating a whirlpool of death and destruction. Somehow, after a few horrifying failed attempts, I scoop the battered Zeus into the mug. Medusa continues to rage furiously around in the water after Zeus is gone, face-flares erect, battle charged like the descendants of the late Napoleon and Louis XVI wanting to restore the monarchy, on fire, zooming around the bowl. Zeus trembles pitifully in his mug. I transfer him to a casserole dish and place it next to Medusa, but soon discover this does not work, like my shower drain and television do not work, because they can see each other through the glass and their massacre will not be disrupted, they are banging their little heads against the glass and nearly knocking themselves unconscious with rage. I had to slip a piece of black paper in between the bowl and the dish so they couldn’t even see each other.
It is at this point I decide to read up on the Beta fish.
The Beta fish – also known as the “Siamese Fighting Fish” – originates from Thailand. The colorful ones – all the ones you see for sale in pet stores – are male. The females are a drab grey. So Medusa is not a lady after all; she has been a gentleman fish the whole time. Males absolutely cannot be kept together, or they will fight to the death.
On the day Medusa died, all I wrote in my journal was:
“Medusa died”.
After discovering the fact of her maleness, I never stopped referring to her as a female. I just started to think of her as more of a drag queen.
