Paris Fashion Week was last week. It is the largest of four showings of clothing in the world. Others show take place in London, Milan, and New York. The largest fashion houses, for example Louis Vuiton, Jean Paul Gaultier, Miu Miu etc all display their wares here and it is notorious for being a media circus. The focus is on Haute Couture, I believe. I have no interest in this kind of thing.
Also, I generally hate parties, but I had an invitation, and not knowing anybody here or having any friends, I went to a party at a fancy hotel. The people at the door checked off my name on the guest list. I was still wearing the coat I found on the roadside next to the corpse of a filthy stew bum last Fall, but after eating a box of morphine tablets, I didn't care what anybody thought about me. I checked the coat at the coat check room anyway. Lots of people. Lots of beautiful women. Maybe I can make a friend. Probably not. I soon realized that the party was affiliated with Paris Fashion Week. I talked to a few random people. Got a glass of wine. 2 American women talked to me. They were both obese and worked in advertising. My idea of a first date is to spend the morning hiking up a 10,000 foot mountain and have lunch and a bottle of wine with her at the summit, so I kind of feel like talking to fat chicks at parties is pointless, no matter how beautiful they are on the inside. Conversely, I feel like talking to ugly (don't read this wrong - I mean ugly on the inside. people with nasty, unpleasant personalities.) people is pointless, no matter how beautiful they are on the outside. That last condition rules out most of the women models here and most of humanity in general. Even worse, my French isn't good enough to have any kind of deep conversation with any of the natives, so I was kind of limited in who I can talk to.
A few minutes later, I started talking to another woman. She approached me, actually. I don't like going up to people and initiating conversation. I usually regret it. She was some kind of entry level model. I mean, she was beautiful but not rich and famous. The card she gave me had what looked like a head and torso shot of her in lingerie. We chatted for maybe an hour. Her name is Céline, and she is French but from the island of La Reunion. She gave me her phone number and email address. I have a new French phone the number which I have not yet bothered to memorize so I didn’t give her my number. Only my email. She said she had only been mountain climbing once in her life. It was time to move on. She kissed me with that weird French style of greeting or goodbye kissing and we said goodbye and agreed to stay in touch. She would help me with French and I could help her with English.
Soon another girl comes up to me. She was wearing black tights. She started talking to me. Her name was Heidi. She was new to Paris. She works in the fashion industry. She's from Australia. At first I thought she was pretty. She was a fashion model after all. Clothing, not lingerie. We chatted for 15 minutes and seemed to be hitting it off, but then to my horror, her face started morphing. Not in a good way. There are no words for the effect. That's why I have started making up words like 'wibble' later in this entry.
The first thing that went wrong was that there was a baneful light like the harsh and dirty glare of a soiled spotlight coming out of the middle of her forehead. It was like an auxiliary asshole with a flashlight shining out of it, shit smeared across the lens. (I was reminded of that William Burroughs character ‘Spare Ass Annie’) Not only did it look dirty, but it carried the feeling of deep rooted anger and hatred. I've seen it in a lot of people, especially in people with mental disorders or deep emotional problems. I wanted to leave.
Then things really started looking weird. Her face was made out of clay, and it started wigging. Her skin turned a corpse-like gray. Her flesh was writhing. Then it was like millions of maggots were crawling just under the skin of her face. A little later, for a moment, her head was like a lop-sided balloon, swollen with one side squished inward. Then her face shrunk into a limp membrane with a million tiny wrinkles like an over-inflated balloon that had been voided of air. Then her head wibbled into a Mr. Potato head. The whole time, physically, she looked normal, but it was her inner face that was doing all of that. She had the face of a model, but to me, she was ugly on the inside. Nobody else's face did that. There were no other visual aberrations that night. Not that I believe, but I'll call this an 'aura' with the New Age (as in Shirley McClain sees the aura of Elvis when she talks to him in his UFO on the Astral Plane) definition. It was enough to make me feel dirty. Disgusted, I had the urge to go home and take a shower.
I'm not using this blog to experiment with Fiction Writing, but I'm trying to describe something that I perceive subjectively. No matter what condition I'm in, whether I'm sober, drunk, on opium, this happens. The phenomena that I'm describing I see so vividly with my imagination that they look real, and if I didn't know better, I would believe that they were real. In other words, I could sketch these things, but I could never photograph them. Or, I am so close to being a Schizophrenic that I can stand on the edge of the cliff of sanity and look down over the edge into the madness without actually falling. At least for now.
Another party, another night.
My job has nothing to do with fashion yet somehow I end up at a couple of their parties. What really bothered me last week was another woman I met at another fancy party. The moment I looked at her, I felt like I knew her and had known her for a long time. Her name was uhhh, we never exchanged names. Her English isn't good and neither is my French. Anyway, it felt comfortable to be near her and speak to her. She had a kind of warm radiant light around her. The light was soothing and balanced like a softly-lit room and unlike the baneful brown spotlight glaring out of the forehead of the girl from the other party. We must have talked for no more than a half hour. For me that's a long time because I generally don't like talking to people for that long before I feel painfully bored or annoyed. Talking to her was like remembering or catching up with a long lost friend.
I felt like I was standing next to a powerful magnet. I've never felt so strongly attracted to anyone my entire life. Something must be really the matter with me. I don't like people, and I don't have the biological urge to have a mate or the susceptibility to pheromones that makes people feel 'infatuation' and want to engage in coitus. I began to feel a sense of frozen panic [like a deer caught in the headlights of a speaking truck.] Besides, there were almost 1000 people at this party and with everybody else's pheromones mixing, there is no way one person's could have that effect on me. But I would be trapped and vulnerable in the worst way if i stayed near her. She turned and stepped aside to say something to someone she apparently knew. OK, it's some dude who must be her date. They obviously know each other and give the impression that they arrived together.
I'm sick and tired of being accused of flirting with or hitting on people's spouses and dates when I'm only chatting or trying to be friendly or only just polite. Even if he's not her date, this is a good excuse for me to leave. Not that I wanted to leave, but I could have stayed beside her all night. I felt that I liked being near her too much. While she was talking to him, I pushed my way through the crowd and went to the coat check room and got my coat. At the door, I looked back across the room and met her eyes. She was looking at me. She had a strange expression like she was wondering what was wrong with me for leaving. In a city of more than a million people, if I leave now, the odds are extremely unlikely that/ I will ever see her again. The porter opened the door, and I left.
Now, half a week later, I feel very sick. I don't even know name, but she's all I can think about. I can't even sleep properly, and when I do, I dream of her. In the dreams her name is Ariadne and I wake up saying her name. I have lost my appetite. I have never felt this way before, not even with girlfriends I was fond of, and I don't know what's wrong with me. The one time I felt even remotely like this was for some girl in 9th grade who figured it out (I never told her and even avoided her). She sent me a note saying to meet her in a shed behind the school during lunch, and had her friends ambush me in there and beat me up.
Did she (Ariadne) do this to me on purpose? Is there some kind of seduction super-power that certain people have that can make people become obsessed with them?
I don't know if she put something in my wine or what, it feels worse than the craving for any drug. Should have run away or stayed? How is it possible to miss somebody even to long to see somebody I only talked to for a few minutes? I don't even miss my gf, but my gf has been nothign but a bitch the last year, and we have really broken up.
Now I can try to let it wear off - this obsession with Ariadne. If I cant, I might go to the red light district and fsck some hookers and try to get this out of my system.
Oh yeah, I completely forgot about her, but Céline from the first party emailed me asking if i would like to have coffee with her this week. I'm sorry but I can't bring myself to even answer her email with a yes or no. I feel guilty. She was kind and sweet and affectionate, but there just wasn't any chemistry. She didn't seem like much of a mountain climber either. Ariadne (she never told me her name. I only drempt that it was her name.) from the the second party is all i can think about.
Sorry for the messy long rambling entry. I'll edit it later.
Also, I generally hate parties, but I had an invitation, and not knowing anybody here or having any friends, I went to a party at a fancy hotel. The people at the door checked off my name on the guest list. I was still wearing the coat I found on the roadside next to the corpse of a filthy stew bum last Fall, but after eating a box of morphine tablets, I didn't care what anybody thought about me. I checked the coat at the coat check room anyway. Lots of people. Lots of beautiful women. Maybe I can make a friend. Probably not. I soon realized that the party was affiliated with Paris Fashion Week. I talked to a few random people. Got a glass of wine. 2 American women talked to me. They were both obese and worked in advertising. My idea of a first date is to spend the morning hiking up a 10,000 foot mountain and have lunch and a bottle of wine with her at the summit, so I kind of feel like talking to fat chicks at parties is pointless, no matter how beautiful they are on the inside. Conversely, I feel like talking to ugly (don't read this wrong - I mean ugly on the inside. people with nasty, unpleasant personalities.) people is pointless, no matter how beautiful they are on the outside. That last condition rules out most of the women models here and most of humanity in general. Even worse, my French isn't good enough to have any kind of deep conversation with any of the natives, so I was kind of limited in who I can talk to.
A few minutes later, I started talking to another woman. She approached me, actually. I don't like going up to people and initiating conversation. I usually regret it. She was some kind of entry level model. I mean, she was beautiful but not rich and famous. The card she gave me had what looked like a head and torso shot of her in lingerie. We chatted for maybe an hour. Her name is Céline, and she is French but from the island of La Reunion. She gave me her phone number and email address. I have a new French phone the number which I have not yet bothered to memorize so I didn’t give her my number. Only my email. She said she had only been mountain climbing once in her life. It was time to move on. She kissed me with that weird French style of greeting or goodbye kissing and we said goodbye and agreed to stay in touch. She would help me with French and I could help her with English.
Soon another girl comes up to me. She was wearing black tights. She started talking to me. Her name was Heidi. She was new to Paris. She works in the fashion industry. She's from Australia. At first I thought she was pretty. She was a fashion model after all. Clothing, not lingerie. We chatted for 15 minutes and seemed to be hitting it off, but then to my horror, her face started morphing. Not in a good way. There are no words for the effect. That's why I have started making up words like 'wibble' later in this entry.
The first thing that went wrong was that there was a baneful light like the harsh and dirty glare of a soiled spotlight coming out of the middle of her forehead. It was like an auxiliary asshole with a flashlight shining out of it, shit smeared across the lens. (I was reminded of that William Burroughs character ‘Spare Ass Annie’) Not only did it look dirty, but it carried the feeling of deep rooted anger and hatred. I've seen it in a lot of people, especially in people with mental disorders or deep emotional problems. I wanted to leave.
Then things really started looking weird. Her face was made out of clay, and it started wigging. Her skin turned a corpse-like gray. Her flesh was writhing. Then it was like millions of maggots were crawling just under the skin of her face. A little later, for a moment, her head was like a lop-sided balloon, swollen with one side squished inward. Then her face shrunk into a limp membrane with a million tiny wrinkles like an over-inflated balloon that had been voided of air. Then her head wibbled into a Mr. Potato head. The whole time, physically, she looked normal, but it was her inner face that was doing all of that. She had the face of a model, but to me, she was ugly on the inside. Nobody else's face did that. There were no other visual aberrations that night. Not that I believe, but I'll call this an 'aura' with the New Age (as in Shirley McClain sees the aura of Elvis when she talks to him in his UFO on the Astral Plane) definition. It was enough to make me feel dirty. Disgusted, I had the urge to go home and take a shower.
I'm not using this blog to experiment with Fiction Writing, but I'm trying to describe something that I perceive subjectively. No matter what condition I'm in, whether I'm sober, drunk, on opium, this happens. The phenomena that I'm describing I see so vividly with my imagination that they look real, and if I didn't know better, I would believe that they were real. In other words, I could sketch these things, but I could never photograph them. Or, I am so close to being a Schizophrenic that I can stand on the edge of the cliff of sanity and look down over the edge into the madness without actually falling. At least for now.
Another party, another night.
My job has nothing to do with fashion yet somehow I end up at a couple of their parties. What really bothered me last week was another woman I met at another fancy party. The moment I looked at her, I felt like I knew her and had known her for a long time. Her name was uhhh, we never exchanged names. Her English isn't good and neither is my French. Anyway, it felt comfortable to be near her and speak to her. She had a kind of warm radiant light around her. The light was soothing and balanced like a softly-lit room and unlike the baneful brown spotlight glaring out of the forehead of the girl from the other party. We must have talked for no more than a half hour. For me that's a long time because I generally don't like talking to people for that long before I feel painfully bored or annoyed. Talking to her was like remembering or catching up with a long lost friend.
I felt like I was standing next to a powerful magnet. I've never felt so strongly attracted to anyone my entire life. Something must be really the matter with me. I don't like people, and I don't have the biological urge to have a mate or the susceptibility to pheromones that makes people feel 'infatuation' and want to engage in coitus. I began to feel a sense of frozen panic [like a deer caught in the headlights of a speaking truck.] Besides, there were almost 1000 people at this party and with everybody else's pheromones mixing, there is no way one person's could have that effect on me. But I would be trapped and vulnerable in the worst way if i stayed near her. She turned and stepped aside to say something to someone she apparently knew. OK, it's some dude who must be her date. They obviously know each other and give the impression that they arrived together.
I'm sick and tired of being accused of flirting with or hitting on people's spouses and dates when I'm only chatting or trying to be friendly or only just polite. Even if he's not her date, this is a good excuse for me to leave. Not that I wanted to leave, but I could have stayed beside her all night. I felt that I liked being near her too much. While she was talking to him, I pushed my way through the crowd and went to the coat check room and got my coat. At the door, I looked back across the room and met her eyes. She was looking at me. She had a strange expression like she was wondering what was wrong with me for leaving. In a city of more than a million people, if I leave now, the odds are extremely unlikely that/ I will ever see her again. The porter opened the door, and I left.
Now, half a week later, I feel very sick. I don't even know name, but she's all I can think about. I can't even sleep properly, and when I do, I dream of her. In the dreams her name is Ariadne and I wake up saying her name. I have lost my appetite. I have never felt this way before, not even with girlfriends I was fond of, and I don't know what's wrong with me. The one time I felt even remotely like this was for some girl in 9th grade who figured it out (I never told her and even avoided her). She sent me a note saying to meet her in a shed behind the school during lunch, and had her friends ambush me in there and beat me up.
Did she (Ariadne) do this to me on purpose? Is there some kind of seduction super-power that certain people have that can make people become obsessed with them?
I don't know if she put something in my wine or what, it feels worse than the craving for any drug. Should have run away or stayed? How is it possible to miss somebody even to long to see somebody I only talked to for a few minutes? I don't even miss my gf, but my gf has been nothign but a bitch the last year, and we have really broken up.
Now I can try to let it wear off - this obsession with Ariadne. If I cant, I might go to the red light district and fsck some hookers and try to get this out of my system.
Oh yeah, I completely forgot about her, but Céline from the first party emailed me asking if i would like to have coffee with her this week. I'm sorry but I can't bring myself to even answer her email with a yes or no. I feel guilty. She was kind and sweet and affectionate, but there just wasn't any chemistry. She didn't seem like much of a mountain climber either. Ariadne (she never told me her name. I only drempt that it was her name.) from the the second party is all i can think about.
Sorry for the messy long rambling entry. I'll edit it later.