i

Journal Entries, Olive Notebook

Paris, Canal St-Martin

May 28, 2004 11:37 am

My feet are tired. I walked from the Marais to the Canal. Since I forgot my camera today, I bought a postcard from Sisley's series of Impressionist paintings of the Canal for my keepsakes. There are places in Paris that make me homesick. The irony in my missing Texas is that I dream of France daily, so being here should make me feel more comfortable than being home. This canal reminds me of watching Amelie; here, I can skip stones and be her ghost. I can drink, laze around the streets all night, and be Rimbaud's shadow. I can hover near Saint-Germain des Près, and review Hemingway's steps by eating at Les Deux Magots. However today, I need to be here to write and to be closer to the water. The city grows from the roots of man, out of the strength and resources of the earth. Even within the most complex surroundings, an individual can sit and find peace within nature's vision. Pleasure, life, and imagination flow within city walls-these are the elements of nature. By moving into the city without relinquishing the foundations of humanity, people ultimately "incorporate elemental components of human life: the origin and continuity of personal existence; the desire for ultimate satisfaction; consciousness of and existence in the natural and man-made world--with the latter inevitably involving the themes of creativity and society."ii With the rise of urban living and the industrial economy, treasured spaces within nature are becoming more and more scarce. Finding myself here in Paris, within the walls of a growing city, I have the desire to understand the role of my mixed environment.

Literature often anticipates and fears the destruction of nature by culture, art, war, or industry. Can Paris truly defeat itself with technological development? What about my home: are there enough English majors and "Keep Austin Weird" hippies in town to save our sacred spaces? What will become of other beautiful cities, which are thought to be hubs of culture, creativity, and positive growth? I am beginning to wonder if I am any different than any other bibliophile living in the city. Austin and Paris do not stand alone with having beautiful green parks, class issues, poverty, filth, and pollution-tinted air. According to modern evangelical literature, these are the End Times. Baudelaire, Marx, Engels, Hugo, Blake, and Rimbaud have said it all long before--and better. But let's face it: these are not the End Times. Instead of regurgitating the fears and foibles of centuries of academic thought, today I am just going to relax and enjoy nature. And I don't think that Hugo would argue with me either. Somewhere beneath the political stress and emotional complexity of bourgeois life, everyone needs a moment to breathe oxygen and just observe. I am in the northeast corner of Paris's tenth arrondisement, sitting along the banks of a natural stream of water that flows along man-made walls through a system of levees. So let's start over, and try to make it more eloquent this time. Where am I?

"The sun is hot; and it scarcely lights the earth any longer; as a torch placed within a gigantic vault lights it by only a feeble gleam, so the sun, the earthly torch, extinguishes itself while letting escape from its fiery body a final and feeble gleam, that nonetheless still show the green leaves of the trees, the little flowers beginning to face, and the gigantic summits of the pines, the poplars, and the century-old oaks. The cooling wind, that is to say a cool breeze, moves the leaves of the trees with a rustling somewhat similar to the sound that comes from the silvery waters of the stream at my feet. The ferns bend their green faces before the wind. I fall asleep, having first quenched my thirst with the water of the stream. I dream..."iv

France, en route

August 29, 1870 1:40 pm

It is August in 1870, and I am twenty years old. I am traveling alone, retracing my friend's rugged path between Charleville-Mézières and Paris. I have come from the west across the shores of the Atlantic on an ocean liner. The Mediterranean Sea greeted me in Spain, but I did not feel as happy as I do now until my train reached the southwest border of France. I just received notice that my friend, Arthur Rimbaud, has fled his home for the second time at the age of fifteen, despite him knowing that I was coming to visit. Madame Rimbaud has sent me away from Charleville with little notice of Arthur's whereabouts; I am traveling light, with my olive notebook, Rimbaud's letters, a slim pocketbook with a few hundred francs, a small suitcase with clothes, and some biscuits for the road. The only information I have is what Arthur said in his last letter to me: he is disturbed by the war with Prussia and his disgust with the town he grew up in has exploded in result. He asked me to come visit while I travel in France, but we have crossed paths somewhere along the way. I am now closer to Brussels than Paris, which could take hours by coach to reach. The train lines are cleared in the evening, so that the imperial army can send war supplies through eastern France to the front lines. The fighting has neared Chareville-Mézières, but fortunately does not interfere with my return journey to Paris. The Germans are occupying central and eastern France but have not yet reached Paris.

Rocking back and forth across the golden French countryside, I reread Arthur's letter to me. He enclosed one of his shorter works entitled "Feelings," to continue our poetic discourse:

On a blue summer night I will go through the fields,
Through the overgrown paths, in the soft scented air;
I will feel the new grass cool and sharp on my feet,
I will let the wind blow softly through my hair.

I will not say a word, I will not think a thing,
But an infinite love will set my heart awhirl,
and I will wander far, like a wild vagabond,
Throughout Nature--happy as if I had a girl.v

I have always thought that this particular poem of Arthur's shows his exquisite skill in French verse and really illustrates his connection with nature; therefore I often read it when I am thinking about him. How surprising it is to find that he truly has wandered far through the countryside; how funny it is to be having a dialogue with Arthur while he is away in Paris. I wonder if he has truly found himself in the depths of a forest or in the middle of open land. He seems to have followed his desire to become a wandering traveler.

I arrive in Paris in the night's open air. Twilight begins, and the humidity of the summer settles around me. After establishing myself in a hotel, I send a telegram to Madame Rimbaud and set out to find Arthur. I ask myself, "Where would I be if I were Rimbaud?" My mind wanders back to his poem about his love. A girl--but who? Fields and paths? New cool grass. . . of course! Arthur has always wanted to visit the Tuileries! Ignoring the clock, I have decided to jump down to the street that leads to the Louvre. Within a short jog through the tangled streets of Paris, a view of the right bank emerges. The gardens rise up over the hill, colored by the golden lamps of the city. This is the urban landscape of the men Arthur loves. Hugo's poetry lines the walls of the cathedral, and Baudelaire resonates in the alleys of the Left Bank. Rimbaud came here to make an impression, to escape his mother, and above all for freedom.

Paris, Champs Elysees

August 31, 1870 2:15 pm

Rimbaud was not where I thought to look. I have searched the museums, looked for him at his alternative address, and scoured the city parks. There is no information from Madame Rimbaud, and I can find no trace of Arthur. I am beginning to wonder if he kept on in his journey and settled near Bois-de-Boulogne. This two thousand, two hundred acre, wooded park lies directly west of the heart of Paris, scattered with cafes, fountains, and waterfalls. Arthur sent me an impression of his first trip to Bois-de-Boulogne in another letter from Paris. "Tête de faune" or "Faun's Head" imagines nature as his sanctuary:

Among the leaves, green curtain stained with gold,
Among the tremulous leaves, the flowery
Tangles bower, like a sudden kiss revealed,
Bright rent in this exquisite tapestry,

Glitter the eyes of a frightened faun,
Who bites the red flowers with his small white teeth.
Brown and bloody as the dregs of wine,
His lips part in laughter beneath a leaf.

Then, like a squirrel, he turns and disappears,
But his laughter lingers still among the leaves,
And, shaken as a startled chaffinch soars,
The Golden Kiss of the Woods is left in peace.vi

Arthur could be anywhere, but he seems most content among the golden leaves in a forest. He jumps when startled like the faun, away from his home. He believes he is truly free on the road, as he says of his first vagrant phase: "The stars above me rustled through the sky. I heard them on the roadsides where I stopped those fine September nights, when the dew dropped on my face and I licked it to get drunk."vii Tomorrow after tea, I will go to the park and ask if anyone has seen my friend. I am losing hope, but the forest is my last idea.

Near Montpellier, en route to Spain

September 01, 1870 12:35 pm

My search for Arthur has come up short. I am running out of money, and Madame Rimbaud has sent me more bad news. Arthur was arrested the night of his arrival because he could not afford his train fare. I feel that my detective work has come to nothing. He has been sent back to Charleville after being imprisoned, and my vacation is coming to an end. I received a letter from Charleville before leaving for the Spanish coast. Rimbaud sends word that he misses Paris, regrets not meeting with me again, and will send more poems if I forward my address. I am being pulled into his confusing ideas. He wants to return to Paris without obligation, and he wants to be a visionary. I wish I could stay, but I must return to Spain before I run out of money. I cannot miss the ocean liner which will return me home to the States. Rimbaud asks me to look at myself as he has done. He says, "Je est un autre," as if his alienation is his identity. I want to understand him and his vision:

The suffering is immense, but you have to be strong, and to have been born a poet. And I have realized that I am a poet. It's not my doing at all. It's wrong to say: I think. Better to say: I am thought. Pardon the pun. . . I am a spectator at the flowering of my thought: I watch, I listen to it: I draw a bow across a string: a symphony stirs in the depths or surges onto the stage.viii

Arthur believes that he has found his purpose; he says that he cannot escape or alter his objective in life. He wants to be an observer and a spectator of his own thought. Will he be liberated by his new vision? I want to feel the immense surge of freedom that he finds on the road, wandering from place to place without law or security. It has been fantastic to be back in Paris and the countryside, but I am tired and disappointed with my failure. Trying to find Arthur has overshadowed my trip, and I have not even seen him. Chasing Rimbaud has swallowed my attention, but I can look forward to taking a trip of my own in the States. Maybe I could take a train to the mountains, or wander around a big city alone like Rimbaud in Paris.

Paris, Hôtel Lenox

May 30, 2004 10:15 am

Yesterday, I had the weirdest dream while sleeping at the park. I woke up feeling really exhausted, as if I had been walking all day. I only slept for about an hour, but the dream seemed to last for days. I think I may have had a little too much Rimbaud over lunch; I dreamed he was my friend and I was chasing him down. I can't explain the nonsense in my dream, but some of the ideas really made me think about my life. I wonder what it means to be truly alive. What is freedom? If humanity built this city and in turn this society, does that make Paris oppressive? How can Arthur see the city as both a beacon of happiness and a center of despair? Rimbaud does not answer these questions, but poses them for me to question on my own. Where am I, and why?

Rimbaud challenges his readers to look beyond the structure of every day life to find adventure. Nature, freedom, and being in the heart of the city are what he adores. The dream reminded me of my seminar class where we tried to find a sense of place on little spots of lawn.ix The simplicity and stillness of an open field of grass or a pool accents the beauty of the city. Rimbaud notices the inherent coldness of the city, where "the ideas of people sound from the thickly clustering bell towers," but he feels energized by its bustle.x The thrill of life, for young Arthur, was to find a quiet place in which to relax under the bright Paris sky.

Word Count: 2,375