Is it really a sign of schizoid behaviour when once in a while a movie makes just a little bit more difference in the wave-pattern of your head than it was intended to?
"The Score" was a story. A good story, nothing remarkable, the cast was good, the filming good, the mood was nice. But... It showed Montreal through cf's eyes. And that struck me more than the simple nostalgia I had been prepared for.
Once, I dreamed, and perhaps still do (although I am too close to the subject to be objective about it), of moving to Bretagne where all the people are real and kind when I grew up.
I came to Paris, chasing this dream, thinking I was one step closer.
I know, though, that I am one step further away, lost in the clutches of the big city when I am finally grown up enough to not want to be a big city girl anymore.
And granted, the promise of love makes me want to run home. The all-too-present memory of the perfect curve of his shoulders curled about me, the painful reminder of the sheer peace at hearing him sing, on the phone on Saturday.
But it is against my nature to turn back on a promise I made to myself (to move on, not from love but from much older insecurities) unless I can come up with justification...
So is that what I'm doing now? Rationalizing? Trying to find a reason to be here and simultaneously an excuse to return as soon as possible?
Still a child, inside, I haven't lost my sense of wonder and hope I never will but... Does that mean I still have to play these petty games with the universe when I know that no one important is going to condemn me for it?
My ego still can't handle being wrong.
And so I am justifying.
I am telling myself that I came to Paris to grow up some more, use the forced-immersion in a stressful environment to snap my perspective back the 42� that I had felt it slip.
(rather than what I originally thought, that I was coming here to leave my old life behind)
I came to Paris to quick-fix the glaring things I hate about myself, the need for attention, need for a witty thing to say in a situation, I came here to find out what I want from the next five years, I came here to find out exactly how I felt about the word home.
I also came to learn not to depend on torn jeans to make a statement anymore, and the careful silk scarf about my neck to match the neglig�e poking out from my new stylish sweater is feeling more elegant than oppressive right now, more comfortable than excessive.
If it is a step towards yuppiehood, you can bet I will be re-evaluating my rationalizations but right now I am enjoying taking minor pride in my blonde locks, because I finally believe that my insides won't spill out if I spend more than fourteen seconds peering into a mirror.
I have never had a sense of home before. Never a sense of that magic belonging to an appartment, furniture was always furniture, stuff always stuff, home with my parents was someplace to run from, and for a while I thought that Montreal was a thing to run from as well.
...Only stagnant people afraid of change ever live out all their lives in the same city, right?
The angry fourteen year old inside me continued to whisper in my year even as I boarded the plane...
...and if I leave Montreal forever, then I will never again run into one of the pigdogs from High School, will never have to explain... They will hear I am gone and admire me for it.
I am ashamed and frightened that perhaps in my head I can be even more juvenile than that, but so far I seem to be scraping the bottom here.
So, I have been in Paris for a handful over a month now, and already I have learned that I can wear matching turquoise underwear and secretly feel sexy under my clothes without having to hate myself for my materialism.
I have learned that Montreal is a truly great city, and after watching "The Score" last night, after the silent tears at the scenes of cobblestoned streets I'd rollerbladed along with his daughers, I know it has all the things I have been asking for of a city.
It is not necessary for me to lose the wonders of Montreal in the commercial horrors of it, if anything Paris has taught me that Montreal has more than it's fair share of magic hiding between the dance clubs and richkid restaurants.
Montreal has all things in it, I should have already known that from cf, from the way he meticulously separates the chaff of the city and leaves it in the gutter with the whores who crave it.
So I have learned that lesson as well.
Now all that's left is to discover another crucial part of myself, like I did living in Lyon.
Concretize the answers to the suspicious question of what a monstre is, and then learn to live by them before I return to an environment that is too full of old memories to be without biased influence.
But my convictions will be stronger before I return home, or I will have no right to.
And perhaps I will still find myself living out my days in the magic of Bretagne, but I know now that I am not a coward if I return to a city that I love.
I am talking in circles again.
I am not quite so afraid to live here in Paris, now that I have created new answers and reasons for myself to be here, and excuses to return to a place where the metros and roads are safe.
And I also know, that I will not be a coward and run home before I am ready.