Stories

La Pluie

I spent a rainy evening watching people walk by under my window, looking down on their umbrellas and footsteps peeking out in turn from under, listening to les rumeurs de la ville drift up to me.

I walked to the sounds of  the rain to the quiet Bistrot La Bruyère in Pigalle, for a perfect pink-centered thon rouge méditerranée, pimento de piquillos au chorizo, chips de basilic, olive taggiasche; a bright dessert of nage de pamplemousse à l’eau de rose, violettes cristallisées, sorbet passion; and a poem.


 painting in the rain

When I learned to paint with oils,
I wanted to sit outside in the rain
At night
And paint the streetlights
On the glossy black of the wet asphalt.
I was sure it would look the same.
I was sure if you saw it,
You would feel the same

As I did
When I was young
Driving home in the rain
Looking out the window in the warmth of a winter car
Thinking of painting in the rain.

I never really learned to paint well,
But I still want to sit outside in the rain
At night
And paint the streetlights
On the glossy black of the wet asphalt.
I am sure you see how I see.
I am sure if you were here,
You would feel the same

As I do
When I am here now
In Paris in the rain
Looking out the window in the pleasant chill of my small room
Thinking of painting in the rain.