Paris in January
Parisians present themselves as whispering, jade-coloured rivers. Wandering spectators, eternal re-enactors of historical etiquette. Participants in a culture of subtlety, light breezes, of zen-like waters.
Sunday morning: what else is there to do than to stand in line for the Boulangerie Patisserie? Not because one likes croissants, but because culture dictates one to do so. Then an espresso in the Tabac. Film-like dialogues: one word as a greeting. Between order and payment strong eye contact, charisma in the vertex of the lips, self-confidence in the undertones. Two words as a farewell.
As we observe the last blues of the sky that gets overwritten by clouds, the water is starting to tremble. Does Paris now stage its true self? The excessive smell of turmoil seems to be revealed, the unrest so far concealed below leisurely walks and culinary pleasures. Time suddenly appears to progress. But before wind and rain set in, the clouds have dispersed.
This is the lie about the Israeli exile in Synonym (2019): this here inspires so much indifference that we cannot even oppose. Paris makes it impossible to explode, but still, we have to piss. The static water in our body must be released into movement. We happily continue to London.
This was it: From the Dionysian Berlin to the Apollonian Paris to the (negatedly, but still madly) Dionysian London. In Berlin, we just wanted to live freely. In Paris, we contemplated a beautiful suicide. London, finally, forms us into fighters.