The Kalopsian Wave

When I was a senior in high-school I was planning to graduate and major in set design for stage productions.

In reality what I wanted more than anything in the world was to be an actress in musicals. I was young but I knew I was far too competitive and couldn’t dance at the level needed to achieve this dream. I wept in my parents shag carpet for hours when earlier that year I didn’t get the role I wanted in my schools musical.

I’m happy that I didn’t pursue theater. I thought maybe I’d do visual art instead because I was already confident in my abilities and liked how it’s an art form that does not stake on comparison of others. Comparing visual artists is comparing apples and oranges. I liked this.

I looked into stage design and checked out some programs, but like a typical 18 year old I had insane hubris and thought there was nothing with substance a stage design major could teach me that I didn’t already know or couldn’t figure out with a quick google search.

I forgot about something else though that I have been dwelling on a lot recently… It’s that writing is super fun.

My last semester of Senior year I took a basic English class and had a teacher with a true artist soul. I was quite annoying and awkward yet he encouraged me to go full-send with writing and art. I didn’t get any true encouragement from adults who were able to see past the nature of a disruptive kid to encourage me to reach for my full potential.

I mentioned to this teacher that I wrote a poem inspired by a dream I had and I felt like a genius after writing it.

Every day he would remind me to bring it for him because he really wanted to read it. I have never encountered an adult who wanted to encourage and foster my creativity this way- it has only ever been intense criticism or worse… apathy.

My teacher loved my poem and encouraged me to keep writing. At the end of the year I found out he selected me for the English award of recognition for writing. I scored low on the ACT and had no other honors in school, this was my only recognition from my scholastic accomplishments. It meant so much.

It’s been about 8 years since this happened and I forgot all about this until recently. I find that ideas circle back like a Halley’s Comet. The Oroborus; another huge symbol to me- my own name translating to “Renewal” or “Rebirth” my name French, the prefix to the word Renaissance. I will always be this way and I like it a lot, changing but circling back to old ideas and memories. I am in love with the idea of life itself and the poetry of being human. I have always been me and I always want to be.

In The Paris Dream I write

”…is this what you wanted? A distance where we are stranded on other side of the same moon?“

It all clicked just now. All my art is just a big question I don’t have an answer for, just like how Bret Easton Ellis decides what to write about. I’m trying to answer a question I don’t understand.

”At least I am. I am by myself, but I think I like it this way.”

I remember in my dream I was trying to find someone hiding on the other side of the moon. I kept chasing them but they kept running further away… I decided to sit still for once, giving up to chase something else, and the moon slowly rotated to the other side without me even noticing. The moon rotates like the snake eating its tail- it’s so simple. I’m the person I was chasing and the only thing I had to do to catch myself is to be patient and learn my lessons the hard way. Who I once wanted to be so desperately I am now, easily, and authentically. I said I was by myself but it was literal, I was my present and future existing by each other at the same time. I am by myself. I love the movie The Substance.

”end credits roll. I go back in time. The view from Mars is beautiful this time of year”

I never got my degree in stage design but I did get divorced and now I feel like I’m going to graduate high-school again, but this time I know what to do and I’m so excited.

I haven’t forgotten about the Paris Dream, and I’ll write about it again and again, circling the wheel like a snake swallowing its own tail- I’m the only one I need to feed myself.

I loved this Marc Chagall painting (The Big Wheel) when I was 18 and I love it again even more now. I lost my Paris Dream poem at 18 and found it tucked between the pages of my Marc Chagall book with this painting. I’ll keep writing about it just like I did when I was 18, the first thing I was really proud of. It’s technically not that good of a poem but still so special to me, tiny seed planted, the place I started to grow from.

Thank you so much Mr. Cassady.

Here is is now:

The Paris Dream

The view from Mars is beautiful this time of year. I am happy. I hear echoes in the hallway. I am waiting for my que. I can see the mortar between the tiles I am alone in the bathroom. Stars slowly appear, one by one. Crickets chirp as gnats bite my skin. There is a shooting star. I have your shirt. I was never your girlfriend. I’m sitting alone in a Ferris wheel with a serial killer. All my friends were made of paper. I can’t help but feel distant. My bed feels worn in, too full of blankets to fit in.  I turn my face away—its too bright here. And is this what you wanted? A distance where we are stranded on other side of the same moon? At least I am. I am by myself, but I think I like it this way. It’s almost lyrical. Cut here. The end credits roll. I go back in time. The view from Mars is beautiful this time of year.