Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal up in here!

Salut Roxanne,

I am waiting for my man to come home to me and prove once again that he loves me. I get tired of waiting for him and the jazz radio plays in the background. I really understand why Billy Holiday drank. PUTAIN! Last night I drank like I was your age and smoked Les Gauloises. I smell like a beggar this morning. He did not arrive at my apartment door yet again. This man, who I came here to see, is loves low down dirty shame. Forever my big secret, I was so angry last night I wanted to slam the kitchen drawer on my hand put out the cigarettes I smoked on my naked skin. However to cowardly to act it all out. My bowl of coffee could not be big enough this morning.

I am attempting a self portrait. I have not attempted such a drawing since my last year of art school so about a decade ago. It is strange to look at yourself in a mirror studying it and mapping out what you see on the paper, my hand still steady from a decade of neglect, rarely putting pencil to paper. The last portrait I attempted a charcoal drawing, my hair a high rise of matted twisting curls I titled it Medusa's Child, like I drew the serpentines beastly shadows within letting it all spill out to draw out the beast's sorrow like drawing blood out with a charcoal syringe bloodletting pulling out the sorrow inside me out of me onto the paper rescuing me from a dark winter all those year ago.

I am a little mixed up at the moment and I don’t know what to do. It is like Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal up in here. Poets such as Baudelaire and Verlaine laboured to phrase a psychical map of this city's terrain of beauty and the human condition of life lived here. Those who have lived here before have passed through this soul-plagued landscape. A city weighed down heavily by its past trapped inside its memory which is beauty's affliction much like myself.

I find solace in the knowledge that the likes of Apollinaire chose to avail his heart and I hope mine as well to the art of living in a poetic manner. Living it out those days of yesterday here and now however wounded by this beautiful city still indentured to it its hypnotic timelessness.

Aujourd'hui je marches à Paris ensanglantées. Today I walk through Paris blood drenched was Apollinaire describing me whilst I am exploring the undercurrent of this landlocked 19^th century stone facade landscape. I feel wild like I am in a wilderness of solitude when left alone. All my friends all my past lovers abandoning this city, all departed only one remains here, my lover the only one that carries on here.

FUCK! PUTAIN! All my karma comes back to me. I am enjoying the hangover headache. C’est une douleur que je m’invite heureusement. Things are always clearer in the morning. The sun rose in the same place and will set tonight in the same place and mon cœur il continue de se battre sans l’amour ou avec, il n’y a pas de différence. So my drunken rampage has passed and I am alright. FUCKING PARIS! Please have a drink or ten for me at the Paper Plane exhibition hopefully my work is hanging next to your sexy Dresden outpourings.

I had a thought last night that you would appreciate. Why I am so vocal during the most intimate act maybe similar to your reason as well. It is because I need words even though they are not written down or typed out there needs to be some sort of exclamation point expressed made through sounds of words, screams, moans and a well placed slap acting as a full stop.

Je t’embrasse

Fayroze