When I woke up in this dream called Paris I become another version of my Australian/Bolivian self. In this world I wear colors I would never dare to in Oz. Hot pinks, bold reds.
Everything that enters this dream is perfect. Like musical notes on a scale which find their place. From the sentiments of people carrying a suitcase full of unnamed emotions to the bright young rose petals, the deep rich fuchsias and more worn out reds. Do we become at one with our surroundings or are our surroundings an extension of us? In Paris, it seems that the divergence between art and life, reality and dreams dance together in a trance of exquisite convergence. The search for meaning ends when the journey through feeling is this intense.
Walking through the Rodin Museum it seemed my dress could have either been made up by the petals in his garden or that the petals were falling from the dress.
In a dream called Paris, you can look at such things and they can be quite another. As I looked at them resting in my hand, they seemed to mark time, nature’s fragranced clock. The markings not only told you the hour but the place. I felt I was at Deep Red Fuchsia : o’clock. Not too long to go till the worn around the edges opaque reds but still enough time left. Or so I hoped.
How fortunate these lovely things were to spend their days under the Paris sun.
To fade as a flower in Paris is equal to being anywhere else on the planet, in full bloom.
So if this is a dream, then may I learn to live with my eyes closed for an eternity, so that wherever I go, that this vision of paradise will always be near. Et voila.
A. Rodin ~ “L’Art n’est que Sentiment” (Art is But a Feeling)