LAST DAY

I tried to think of a way to say goodbye.

To walk and write my farewell messages in the streets.

To leave on a poignant note.

But,

on waking up on this last day i realised that that was unnecessary.

Paris is not about the Hello's and Goodbye's, they are to frequent, the comings and goings.

It is about the time spent.

The is no no need for a dramatic end scene, a final embrace or to be dragged of screaming.

Paris is at a level of performance that these fancies have no place. everyday life is performed within such close proximity that you couldn't deliver such speeches without being interrupted by a scooter on the pavement or a sudden surge of pigeons.

I will say goodbye like i would to a friend

we will walk

nowhere particularly special or memorable

we will see the women in fur coats and the globes in the shop window

and then when it gets rainy, or busy, or cold, or dark, or time, or late, or boring, or sad we'll stop.

I did write a postcard, as a final extraction from Paris, a final sample to take to the lab, one more that the postman might read, one last poem for my collection....

I start my last documented meander by Anvers metro - on a bench is a woman wrapped in a blue and white patterned cloth, she turns to reveal a bright yellow headscarf and a black face, she is young and her legs her surrounded by suitcases.
Old women where fur coats and the papeterie sells globes of all sizes, they glow in the window next to the leather satchels.
I can see all the way to the tall towers, they rise up like shark fins in still waters.
In Franprix they have sprayed the corners of the windows to make them look frosty.
The faucet has been turned on and water spits up over the grid.
In the bakery there is one pear tart and one peach tart left.
Inside four people sit at separate computers, the room is warm and dark, and their faces are individually lit by desk lamps.
On the balcony they have blue pots with tall green plants.
i walk by the lampshade shop, with skeletons hung up high, and the photocopying shop, which i never noticed before.
In the laundrette a man and a woman with a dog on her lap are having a chat.
On rue des matryrs the man in the fish shop is scrubbing in the sink and three children stand on silver scooters. later they shoot past me, as this street goes down hill.

My maps all have beginnings and endings, these are moments of decision or intention - when the pen is on or off the paper. The real map of my time spent here is a swirling spaghetti junction.