Paris: Violins and the Female Orgasm

Fuckin' Paris.  Only here would I get on the subway and be greeted by the sound of some mangy troubadour burning away the strings on the violin pressed below his chin.  He's playing feverishly and it's an up-beat little ditty, refreshing and alive in those ancient tunnels below the city.  I can't recall if I was particularly high or not on that day.  But I probably was because the music whining through our car had a strangely arousing nature to it, and in the grandest of ways.  In truth, it wasn't so much arousing as it was a thing dripping with passion.  By his appearance, our old fiddler was not a man of wealth or well-to-do.  There were wrinkles slowly creeping out from his eyes and around his beady nose as though the years might not have treated him so kindly.  His clothes had a worn look to them and his face glistened like that of one who did not find himself under a shower-head or submerged in a bath daily.  It was a look we had by now come to emanate, whether we wanted to or not.  And perhaps for that reason, I felt a certain affinity between him and I, and the richness of his life suddenly beamed through his eyes, burst through that congenial close-lipped smile and his head thrust vigorously back and forth in what little space that was his on that packed metro car.


[time for work]


If one were to judge a man's worth simply by the joy contained on his face and in his ability to sway another's emotion to good, why, then our humble metro musician was the goddamned Monopoly Man, glass monocle, groomed, white mustache and all.  In this regard, he handily outweighed any other in sight.  And yet, so many paid him no heed.  They were lost, fashionably dressed to a Parisian tee.  Designer clothes from some spring or summer collection. They were lost.  Caught up in the worries and stresses of city living.  The job, the family, the abhorrence to this filthy subway commute.  And at this moment, with this beauty and magic ringing clear, caressing my heartstrings, at this moment they were lost.  Their eyes glazed and zoned out on that far-off of the mind held prisoner, and a look on their faces like the bitter taste of lemons.


The woman set across from me wasn't even listening.  Her headphones were in.  Whatever song she was listening to for the hundredth time must've been way better, I guess.  French pop music immediately comes to mind.  That Stromae song.  Marie's French rap.  Thuggish-ruggish never sounded so pretty.  And I giggle to myself and smile even though she's not.  Because it really doesn't matter.  Her life is her's to live, not mine; an embittered, sour one at that, mais c'est la vie.  She could use a little more violin.  I think it would be good for her.  The passion, the skin tingle at the crescendo.  I'm sure if she gave it a moment of sincere intrigue, it would make her wet, and she would shiver and smile and feel the beauty of living.  Like I do, and like my fiddler on the train.  He hits the last note perfectly just before the car doors open at our stop, and he takes a bow.  I adore him.