Last night I started watching Roman Holiday, one of my favorite films. I have a thing for old cheesy films. Insomnia has been a companion of mine my entire life; when I was a little kid I used to watch AMC all night. I particularly loved anything with Danny Kaye. The romantic in me is enamored with the idyllic, the scenery, the ways things work out. I also love period pieces. Kind of a strange obsession but I have it, and I love it. I've been listening to a lot of Ella Fitzgerald and Nina Simone too. A part of me thinks I was born in the wrong era but then I think about the rights (lack thereof) women had, and especially women of color and think I was born at exactly the right time.
Still, there is a hunger in me to give into some nostalgia that rings from a place I'm not sure exists. I've been remembering Paris and how each morning I'd wake up and go to the window, sit on the tiny balcony overlooking Rue San Jaques and how fucking happy I was. But maybe Paris is one of those cities that is better in memory. I want to travel somewhere old. I want to travel to a place that (forgive me for being so cheesy and un-strong) where I'd feel appreciated as a woman; for grace and femininity, for nurturing. Somewhere where hands are held, shoulders touched. I suppose what I'm saying is that I'm hungry for romance, or some semblance of it. I used to believe in it and sometimes even find it. But as one of my poems says, I was done so hard all of the romance fell out of my body. I want it back. But, then again I don't. To quote another line from one of my poems (is this narcissism Monday or what? Whatever, its my birthday week, I can do whatever I want.) I am appalled when I say follow and am followed.