Love of Language, Language of Love
The opening reel of this cinema captures and romanticizes with a score that settles the viewer hypnotized by the snake charming scenery that is Paris, into a lull, bliss, fantasy; without using any of the 171,476 words in the English dictionary. The feeling of Gil, Owen Wilson’s character, gushing and whimsical from a jump across the pond and not just accept being wet but seeking walks in the rain for their purity encapsulates a romantic renaissance that only Europe can awaken. Messages were many upon me while idols were open, friendly, inviting, and aiding in Gil’s pursuit of his work with passion as a purest; with an idea that was worth repeating, remembering. This dialogue echoing between Hemmingway and G. Pender has value,
Gil : Were you scared?
Ernest Hemingway : Of what?
Gil : Of getting killed.
Ernest Hemingway : You’ll never write well if you fear dying. Do you?
Gil : Yeah, I do. I’d say probably, might be my greatest fear actually.
Ernest Hemingway : It’s something all men before you have done, all men will do.
Gil : I know, I know.
Ernest Hemingway : Have you ever made love to a truly great woman?
Gil : Actually, my fiancé is pretty sexy.
Ernest Hemingway : And when you make love to her you feel true and beautiful passion. And you for at least that moment lose your fear of death.
Gil : No, that doesn’t happen.
Ernest Hemingway : I believe that love that is true and real creates a respite from death. All cowardice comes from not loving, or not loving well, which is the same thing. And when the man who is brave and true looks death squarely in the face like some rhino hunters I know, or Belmonte, who’s truly brave. It is because they love with sufficient passion to push death out of their minds, until the return that it does to all men. And then you must make really good love again. Think about it.
I’m going to marinate on it, low heat and stir; front burner boils mistakenly. Gil did say he was in Cole Porter’s inner-circle, a man stuck living two lives. One, he is engaged to Inez and a Hollywood hack in his eyes, heart. The other, he lives in love with Adriana, Pablo’s and Hemmingway’s folly open the gates of time, heaven; the ‘perfect’ ‘present’. The moment one had read about, (earrings) succumbed to a time paradox, ending the denial, or place of peace that the connection represented. Because as she alluded, “the present is dull.”
Even her Valhalla was not that to Adriana’s hero’s in their present, for they craved the renaissance. The misconception that environment can shape one’s happiness, character, or fulfillment is a story that has been repeated to truth. I was reminded this week, why do I put so much stock, value, in the physical? It only makes up 4% of the known universe but I weigh it the opposite for a majority of my experience.
Let’s bring in a scripture from Bill and Ted, “THE BEST PLACE TO BE IS HERE. THE BEST TIME TO BE IS NOW, AND ALL’S WE CAN SAY IS… LET’S ROCK!”
And with rock comes roll. The rejection of false love has guitar and horn solos at midnight but desperate, doesn’t mean hopeless. More than civic and civil with history, residue, enticement, and charm, Paris embodies art, expression, sex, passion, cuisine; allowing for a transportation outside of an ordinary self into more of a natural state. That is if one lets it happen.
Finding himself alone after Inez’s and his feelings are revealed strolling the brick of Paris canals, Gil hears the bells toll midnight (a common occurrence in Europe) and no suffering surfaces. A word isn’t spoken but his body tells all, and then dreams become fields.
“I thought about you the other day,” says the strawberry hair native while they bask in the synchronicity. “I like to be thought of in that way,” Gil responds coy. Reconciliation is found in an old habit, “oh, now it’s starting to rain” says Pender. “That’s ok, I don’t mind getting wet. Actually, I find Paris is more beautiful in the rain,” she translates with emotional affection, leveling all of Gil’s past midnights, freeing him to scribble, note, draft, and compose his sense, existence; in a melody where rhyme equals reason, and love blinds through the window of the soul inducing a yoking. I suppose that’s midnight Woody.
