Day 194: The Qi Gong Show

Paris, Day 23. Why is it that every time I am on my way to some Relaxation And Inner Peace Experience, like the spa or yoga class, I turn into a total spaz? Invariably, I end up rushing in late, panting, hair frizzed out, eyes wild...while the teacher looks kind of fearful and the rest of the class just stares in silent judgment, thinking: 'We are SOOOOOOO much closer to enlightenment than you.'

Why?

And while we're on the topic of Why, let's discuss why I thought it would be a good idea to take my first-ever Qi Gong class yesterday. In Paris. IN FRENCH.

It weren't easy.

Well, no, let me restate. It was very easy. I just sat there doing nothing because I didn't know what, in fact, I was supposed to be doing. Because it was all in French. And it's not like this kind of Asian energy work is the kind that comes with diagrams, flow charts, flashcards or, in the case of this particular Qi Gong class, any movement to follow along with.

There was a series of super-simple postures, like Yoga For Dummies (but you had to memorize this series, so I guess it was Yoga For Not-So-Dummies). And I had to breathe through both my mouth and nose at the same time.

About the breathing. I'm a fully-indoctrinated Ashtanga yoga girl (Thou shalt only breathe through your nose) who moonlights as a Pilates girl (Thou shalt breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth). But SERIOUSLY, how many ways are there to frickin' BREATHE anyhow?

It was fine. At least I understood the French for 'mouth' and 'nose.' I was hooped when we got to the 'energy meridian' part of the class.

We lay on our backs. The teacher started doing a whole lot of talking. And I started to get a whole lot lost. I heard something about breathing with my hands. Or maybe breathing with my skin. Breathing with the skin of my hands? I don't know.

What I DO know is that someone started to snore very loudly.

And then I happened to look at the clock. Which said Ten Minutes Past When Melanie Should Have Been On The Metro To Meet Her Friend For 2 pm. Because I thought it was an hour class, but clearly the teacher didn't. So, while I was supposed to be breathing with my hands, I started watching the minute hand and plotting my escape.

I considered getting up as quietly as I could and slipping out. Which is when I realized I had placed myself at the furthest point from the door.

In order to get out, I would have to tip-toe over all the dead bodies on ONE side of the room to get my stuff then tip-toe over the dead bodies on the OTHER side of the room to reach the door and AH OUI, I haven't PAID for this class yet and what a forking waste of 20 Euros THIS was because I only understood maybe a quarter of it and I'm probably supposed to be breathing with my knee or my elbow or God-knows-what right now but I wouldn't know because I'm not BREATHING any more or LISTENING any more or RELAXED any more because instead I'm stuck in the corner clock-watching and LOSING MY SHIT.

I was 20 minutes late meeting my friend who was totally laid back about it. I realize now the losing of the shit was totally pointless because as soon as I figured out I was trapped like a Qi Gong rat in a Qi Gong cage, I should have CHILLED THE QI GONG OUT. Sigh.

Day 193: An Explosion of Fruit Flavours

Paris, Day 22. My super-sonically-introspective weekend detonated into a full-frontal celebration of a Monday. And I would like to live a life where that sentence is true every week.

9:30 Morning Pages and green tea
10:00 Bizarre intuition about gospel music followed by Googling “Gospel Paris”
10:10 Discover a gospel singing workshop that MEETS ON MONDAYS
11:00 Follow intuition about dance I’ve been having lately and discover the Danse Centre de Marais
11:05 Realize I don’t know how to say “drop-in classes” in French. Call them anyway and have a very pleasant but fruitless conversation with someone who speaks no English
11:07 Haul ass and get ready to go because I’ve decided that if my intuition has decided I’m taking a dance class today then I’m damn well gonna take a dance class and they’re gonna let me drop in even though the French find a way to be bureaucratic about everything, including their love affairs

11:40 Throw self on Metro Line 7 and head south
11:52 Begin to lose faith in the whole idea, thinking I am stupid for believing the whole world is just going to open up because I had some silly idea about dance...and gospel. Gospel?! WTF? What was I thinking...etc. Etc.
12:10 Explode off Metro at Chalelet, run down rue de Rivoli towards Le Marais, knowing full well that I have gotten AMAZINGLY lost every time I attempt to go to Le Marais, the most recent example being this weekend when I somehow got rebounded OUT of the district every time I tried to walk in. It was like rue du Temple was made of rubber balls. Weird.
12:12 Find rue du Temple and the Dance Centre with zero problems
12:15 Talk to very nice English-speaking woman at reception who says I can drop into anything I want and oh, there’s a super-rocking Boxing class starting in 15 minutes, why don’t you try that?

12:16 Walk into the Boxing studio. Change my clothes
12:20 Remember what a frickin’ DELICIOUS feeling being in a dance studio is
12:30 - 1:30 Get PUMMELED by the Polish Boxing Nazi who screams “Allez! Allez! Allez!” non-stop for an hour while techno music slams in the background. Achieve THE BEST endorphin high of the past six to eight months of my life. Resolve to try a DANCE class at the DANCE centre next time. Note that fake tanning among fitness professionals is not just a North American thing

1:40 Find a bead store. Buy bracelet-making supplies
2:00 Grab a coffee so I can make the bracelet. Get told by guy behind the bar to move to the other end of the bar. Obey. Get introduced to Sandra and Sandrine. Decide this is the FRIENDLIEST Parisian cafe I’ve ever been in – which is weird because Parisians are not friendly in public. Ever.
2:15 Get patted on the ass by Sandrine as she leaves the cafe
2:16 Realize I just got cruised in Le Marais (gay district)

3:00 Continue Operation Colour Saturation by stopping into H&M and Zara
4:00 Realize I have a mortal fear of floral patterns. Resolve to work on this in therapy upon returning home
5:00 Get on subway bursting with excitement about my new YELLOW shirt, a RED striped shirt and a PURPLE SPARKLY scarf
5:30 Rush to bathe in the non-shower-bath-thing in which I have to crouch or kneel in order to wash myself. Do this while boiling pasta water, chopping tomatoes and Skyping with my sister

6:18 Run out the door to gospel thing even though no one responded to my inquiry email or phone message
6:45 Decide that if my intuition (aka Higher Power, aka God) told me to go to gospel, then I’m GOING TO GOSPEL. Even though I don't know the building code and may have to lurk outside the door like a panhandling junkie until someone lets me in
6:56 Walk straight in with zero problem. Talk to the choir leader through a lovely woman named Nancy. Get permission to participate in warm-up and watch the rest of rehearsal

7:00 SING! SING! SING! For the first time since that high school vocal jazz audition where I didn’t get in and was TOTALLY CRUSHED (I hate you Brian Farrell!) and never, ever tried again even though singing has ALWAYS been a secret dream.
7:30 Sit and listen to the song they are working on. Feel heart crack wide, wide open and spill out. Cry.
8:00 Begin listening to choir leader’s performance notes as metaphors for life:
“We need everybody to make a song...a hundred voices make a song.”
“Sing beautifully, sing your best, every time.”
“God will still love you if you don’t hit that note, but I won’t.”

8:40 Get invited to dinner at Nancy’s house. “When?” “Right now.” Tell her I’m meeting a friend. Get invited to lunch and/or swing dancing later this week instead. Marvel at how much generosity can fit into one 4-foot-tall woman from Singapore

9:00 Meet Justine for a drink at a place full of crazy primary colours. Talk about dreams and authenticity and colour and dance and weird intuitions about gospel. (GOSPEL?!)Realize this has been the best day EVER.

Day 192: Hi, I'm Melanie. I'm a Colourexic.

Paris, Day 21. Ventured north and west today to yet-another market in one of the rich Parisian suburbs called Neuilly-sur-Seine.

I go to a market almost every day when I'm in Paris. This week, I started to wonder what my obsession is about.

Because it's not like I buy stuff at all of them. I mean, I do if I need something, but mostly I just wander around, staring at everything and photographing tomatoes.

I figured it out today, though: COLOUR.

Markets are a mile-long orgy of colour. And shapes. And textures. And visually interesting displays.

There's a quote from Picasso about going to the park and 'gorging on green.' That's exactly how I feel at a market or a fabric store: I'm pigging out on red, green, orange, yellow, the springtime colours of the flower stall.

Apparently, I'm starving for colour in my life. This is good to know.

It also explains why I'm already starting to dread my return to the taupe-shaded energy suck of the suburbs. Who decided that 31 flavours of BROWN and GREY were good for people? Sure they're unobtrusive and comforting to a point, but Jesus...LIVE A LITTLE.

Not that the 'burbs are totally to blame for my colourexia. I've been wearing nothing but black since 11th grade. And in my 20s I got into this thing where I'd only buy "classic" clothing: black pants, white shirts, grey cardigans, navy pinstripe suits. Aaaa! Kill me. No wonder I got depressed.

I'm rummaging through my suitcase right now. I'm dying for a little pink or yellow. Please GOD...YELLOW! Okay, I have ONE turquoise scarf. It's on now and I feel better. But clearly, I have a problem.

Um, Boyfriend?

Please have fifty bunches of tulips waiting for me, all different colours, all over the house. And piles of Clementine oranges, lemons and strawberries.

And could you drape colourful scarves all over my office? Purple ones, turquoise ones and orange ones. Also? Please set my reddest lipstick out. I'll be needing that. Oh, and when you pick me up? Wear a hot pink tie.

Thanks.

Love,
Me.

P.S. Speaking of colour, I now have a Flickr account. Some of the pics you've already seen, but there's a new Architecture set and the Market one is all new shots from this morning in Neuilly.

Day 191: Finding Myself In Paris

Paris, Day 20. I've been here just about three weeks now and it's coming clear to me how deeply important this time in Paris has been.

Without going into the surface-level details of what I've actually been DOING (making paper dolls, dancing spastically in my kitchen, listening to a weird mix of Bach, birdsong and banjo), what's been HAPPENING is a gut-level self-knowledge I didn't even know was possible.

I thought I knew myself pretty well until I got here.

It started as a kind of tinkering with scrap paper and Crayola markers. Lists of things I want to do, places I want to see, stuff I want to learn. Different colours, different styles of handwriting, little doodle drawings here and there.

I wrote pages of these multicoloured brainstorms. Gradually, they got more specific and more about the present. Things I Really Love: being near water, Motown music, my close friends. Then it became My Ideal Life. Which turned into an Action List containing scary things like: enroll in a drawing class and a French class, take a physical theatre workshop, start dancing again.

I started working through the Vein of Gold, doing things like writing out my entire life story in five-year chunks, a very revealing exercise.

I realized I've been searching for a home since I was 11 years old. I saw that the happiest periods of my life involved performing and being connected to my body. That I've been blessed at several points with amazingly creative and loving collaborative 'families.' That isolation doesn't serve me well, but solitude does.

I realized that 191 days ago, I took on an idea of what it meant to be an artist without really considering what that means for me. Six months in, I'm finally finding out.

I keep going deeper. And I keep learning more. I've never paid such close attention. It's like a new romance and I'm soaking up all there is to know about my lover.

Through this process of discovery, surface-level changes have started to emerge. A love for photography blossomed and took root. I bought a sketchbook and pens...and started using them. I've begun work on another one-woman show. I have plans to visit a famous bouffon (physical comedy/clowning) teacher next week. I've taken to wearing sparkly earrings and skirts.

Paris, it seems, is the place I find myself.

The first time I came to this city, I was on a tour bus with my mother. The outskirts of Paris are hideously ugly and looking out at the scummy graffiti-ruined housing projects, I started to regret coming.

But as we drove through the wall, the architecture began to transform, becoming more and more glorious the closer we got to the centre. I remember the bus reeling around a bronze statue backlit with waning daylight. That feeling deep in my body: I'm home.

I'm realizing that sense of home I've been searching for (and find when I'm in Paris) is not about where I live but how. In Paris, I inhabit myself. I make myself at home. I make myself a home, existing in a way that is completely, authentically me. Without the history, expectations and assumptions of my life in Canada. Without compromise.

Self-indulgent? You bet.

Parts of it are not sustainable – like the diet of bread, cheese and chocolate – or even desirable – the relentless urbanity leaves me cold. I'm not clinging to this city as some kind of life-raft for personal authenticity, but Paris allows me to exist as a purely creative being – without the demands of also being a girlfriend, co-worker, taxpayer, sister and friend.

And so, this gift comes with a challenge. How can I carry this sense of deep self-awareness and fidelity with me as I step back into the hubbub of so-called real life? How I evolve my 'life as creative act' and avoid sliding back into strangle-hold of habit? Where will this journey take me next?

The short answer is I don't know. Leaving Paris will be much like coming here in the first place – a giant, blind leap of faith.

Day 190: Trusting my Butt

Paris, Day 19. At 8 pm last night, Ms. Burlesque launched forth into what she'd taken to calling the Anal Atelier. Sadly...I was not there.

The evening was scheduled to consist of a 2-hour class (all in French) on the finer aspects of butt plugs and God-knows-what-else followed by a housewarming party as Ms. Burlesque's. Party guests would include a group of people she calls The Queer Family and a famous queer writer from SF called Michelle Tea.

The last time Michelle Tea visited Paris, these folks welcomed her with a spontaneous sex party. "Hi! Welcome to Paris! Please remove your pants."

Although I'm sure they are really nice people and the conversation would have been spectacular, the whole thing freaked me out. In my head, disparate and disconnected details like anal sex workshops, silver sequin pasties and spontaneous sex parties all mushed together and become one gargantuan rabbit hole of weirdness.

Suddenly, I was breathing into a paper bag with images of me huddled in a corner wearing a KY-Jelly-splattered raincoat fending off the fallout of a BYODildo butt-tastic naked queerdo sex-fest and I COULDN'T EFFING DEAL WITH THAT OK?!

I popped a couple of Ativan and called my mommy.

Then I spent the evening with the Parisian equivalent of oil & gas engineers: people who attended business schools and military academies, who make polite conversation over glasses of Alsatian wine, and who wear dress pants and V-neck sweaters (none of which are made of pleather).

The part of my brain that was hungry (nay, ravenous) for a juicy story like a stripper sex-fest gnashed its teeth and wouldn't talk to me all night. But add three shots of herbed Polish vodka to any situation and you've got yourself a soirée, sister.

I used the opportunity to discuss my confusion over how a culture of people who never smile or make eye contact get around to these passionate affairs for which they're famous.

Julien, the host, was happy to enlighten me. "Ah," he said. "Here's how it works: You meet through friends and make conversation. You make a few colloquial jokes, but you never touch each other. Then you go to an exhibition or two, maybe a movie. Then another friend has a party where you get drunk and make out."

Oh.

So much for unbridled passion.

Then, inexplicably and at midnight, someone's mom showed up. She was a very friendly, diminutive redhead and she helped herself to a snack in the kitchen while we all tried not to swear too robustly. Then, she went to bed.

With her son. Julien's roommate and business partner.

Maybe THIS is why Parisian love affairs take so long to get going.

But I had other things on my mind because I'm the kind of girl who, if you're gonna feed her three shots of vodka in relatively rapid succession, you better be prepared to take her dancing.

So, at 12:30, three hours after I would normally be getting my jammies on for beddy-bye, we walked down boul. de Rochechouart to a club called Le Divan Japponais.

We crowded up to the door and had a rather disappointing conversation with the bouncer. Apparently, no one else had shown up either and the bar was cutting its losses for the evening and closing down. We walked across the street to La Fourmi, my writing cafe, which becomes a full-to-overflowing bar at night.

We got a table near the window and I ended up with the sucker's chair – the one sticking way out into the throng of drunk people staggering and crowding against the bar. I was jostled by every passing ass, which judging by how packed the place was, must have been in the hundreds.

All my pent-up vodka-induced dancing energy had no choice but to transform into Immature Shit Disturbing energy. It's simply how I roll and after getting jostled one too many times, I reached out and pinched one of the passing asses.

Well.

Little did I know this kind of behaviour bumps you WAY ahead in the codified System Of French Seduction(TM).

I found myself suddenly betrothed to someone named Guillaume.

I tried to pass the pinch off on Justine. But she was on the other side of the table, so Guillaume was having none of that. He pulled up a chair and sat down. As I gently tried to explain to him that, no, a June wedding would not work for me and that I was terribly sorry but four children was altogether too much given my age and career goals, I flashed HELP ME glances to my friends.

But they were too thoroughly entertained to help me out. I did the only thing I could think to do, a time-honoured method, which was to completely ignore him and strike up a conversation with someone else.

Poor Guillaume took the hint and retreated, heartbroken, to his friends. As far as I know, the wedding's off. Whew.

Day 189: Rubber Panties n' Paper Dolls

Paris, Day 18. I'd planned to write you this really deep, introspective post about the profound personal effect the Cluny Museum has on me. But Ms. Burlesque called so all bets were off.

It was after 9 pm when she phoned, breathless, from the Metro. "I'm performing at a vernissage. It's like three stops away from you. You have to come."

Not one to be bossed around, I took a moment to consider my options:
a) Keep making the paper doll I'd been constructing (I'm serious),
b) Tuck in with a book and a baguette,
c) Go to an art opening and see some chick strip.

I put on shoes and ran the dog shit gauntlet to the subway. I got off at Porte de la Villette – one of the many portes or entrances through the peripheral wall containing Paris. It's a total shithole of bus stations, drunks and the pervasive odour of pee. But right in the middle of it all – of course, this is Paris – is a gallery/performance space called Glazart.

I wandered into the main space which looked more like a warehouse bar than a gallery. People crowded the stage and a band got up to play. I half-listened, half-stared at the motley mix of people gathered, half-wondered if I was missing Ms. Burlesque's performance somewhere and half-searched for the art that we were all supposedly here to see.

I know, that was four halves. It was a big night.

While the band played, I watched a creepy old man with a video camera. He appeared to be chasing several model-types around the space. The models looked bored and disdainful. But that's what models do.

There was also an 11-year-old child running around. And a healthy representation of people over fifty. This is one thing I adore about Paris: age really doesn't matter. You don't have to be 20 years old in order to be in a cool band and yes-you-can wear a tweed business suit to a rock show. The headlining band for the night was a pair of women deeeeep in their forties. They rocked the effing block.

Eventually, I spotted Ms. Burlesque. She was wearing a 40s-style cocktail dress, red satin opera gloves and shiny-shiny red heels. Glam-o-rama. She was hamming it up with some guy who was dramatically biting her arm while she dramatically screamed. There was a paparazzi-like mob of photographers crowded around.

I kept watching the creepy old guy videoing the models. One model slowly turned around, scanned the room sadly and dragged her hands down her face (careful not to mess up her eye makeup). Then another model, an escapee from Prom Night 1986, staggered through the scene, followed by a skinny rat-faced guy dressed as Gangster Least Likely To Kick Anyone's Ass.

Whatever kind of music video/experimental short film/video installation they were shooting, it looked terrible.

"Did you get lost?" the voice came from behind me. I turned around, just narrowly avoiding getting my eyes poked out by a pair of GIANT fake eyelashes. "I've been looking all over for you," Ms. Burlesque said, gazing over my shoulder.

The next band took the stage, featuring a seven-foot-tall Teutonic warrior woman who screamed through a bullhorn into the microphone. Because a bullhorn wasn't enough.

Ms. Burlesque, her friend Natalie and I retired to the bar. "What do you want to drink?" Natalie asked. I stared at the bottles and bottles of booze suspended above the bar. "I dunno...a beer?" I said. "We're having martinis," Burlesque explained, as though we all needed to show beverage solidarity or something.

"I'm fine with beer," I said while Natalie and Burlesque exchanged glances. "Of course...beer for the Canadian," Burlesque said rolling her eyes. I got the eye-roll a second time when I asked about catching the last Metro.

The last band finally came out and we crowded toward them. "Whoo! Living Dolls!" Burlesque called out, smiling at me. "I thought they were the Human Toys," I yelled over the din. "They are," she laughed. "But you've been calling them the Living Dolls all night. Hahaha! Including when you met Poupée the lead singer. Hahaha!"

Oh. Hahaha.

The Human Living Doll Toys took the stage. Poupée was clad in head-to-toe RUBBER. Rubber stockings held up by garters and rubber frilly panties with a big purple rubber bow. They launched into their first song and rocked the forking HOUSE.

That was Ms. Burlesque's cue. A massive tattoo-covered man lifted her onto the stage and she began vamping. She coyly removed one of her opera gloves, which was enough to cause all the men in the room to mob the stage. My drink went flying.

While the band cranked out serious hard-core shit, Burlesque flirted and pouted and steadily got nakeder. She stripped down to a bra, corset and panties and shook her long, black hair free. When she turned her back to unclasp her bra, I started giggling. I couldn't help it.

After a dramatic pause, she spun around to reveal a pointy set of silver sequined pasties.

I giggled uncontrollably. Poupée dropped to her back, shrieking into the mic. Burlesque took the opportunity to MOUNT Poupée and lick the entire length of her torso. She then lifted Poupée's leg and hauled her tongue along the rubber-clad length of it.

She stood up and shook it a bit, raising her arms above her head to expose surprisingly large patches of Yeti-quality arm pit hair.

The song ended and Burlesque adopted this wide-eyed 'Oh gracious! I appear to be naked!' look on her face and jumped down from the stage. Seconds later, she appeared beside me in the crowd. Still basically naked. Pasties. Bare ass. Right next to me.

We danced to the rest of the set, her naked, me wearing fourteen layers of clothing and feeling awkward. As I was dancing, my hand TOTALLY ACCIDENTALLY I SWEAR grazed her naked butt a couple of times.

After the show, I followed Burlesque backstage (yessss!) where the air was thick with smoke. Dozens of random people were sprawled out on grimy couches amid beer cans, garbage and cigarette butts. There was a big bowl of water with several now-empty bottles of champagne.

Burlesque flung herself over a sofa to get her bag – her bare ass splayed all over the room. No one batted an eye. Then the Velvet Underground Teutonic warrior lady stormed in, towering over everyone and brandishing a lit cigarette. "I need five minutes. Everybody...get out."

At the door, Burlesque pulled a hood over her head, shouldered her backpack. She turned to me and said (I shit you not), "The star goes incognito." She disappeared into the night.

Day 188: Keeping it Together

Paris, Day 17. I discovered a love for photographing vintage buttons and beads at the flea market a couple of weeks ago. Since then, I had this idea for a series of photos called 'Keep It Together' or something of that ilk.

It would include buttons and snaps and clasps, as in 'keeping my pants (and therefore my dignity) together.' But also duct tape, control-top panty hose, prescription medication, to-do lists...all those trinkets and doo-dads we use to maintain our illusions of safety, security and control.

Although now that I think of it, it doesn't have to only be photos...it could be the actual objects styled into interesting installations. Hmm.

*Wheels Turning*

Regardless, I went to the textile district near the base on Montmartre to putter around in the fabric shops, which are essentially rooms full of rainbows as far as I'm concerned.

It was like visual dessert. Delicious colours and textures galore. Order. Disorder. Weird little mannequins with 'serving suggestions.' The sound of fabric ripping. Price tags with that specifically French style of handwriting. The smell of the leather shop. Swathed street displays that looked like crowds of Muslim women in full (and colourful) burkhas.