HEAR MY VOICE, I AM THE SOUL AND SPIRIT OF A CHILD OF THE 60S WHO HAS A STORY TO TELL. I HAVE SPOKEN TO WALT WHITMAN AND HE TOLD ME TELL THE TALE FOR THE FUTURE AS HE TOLD HIS TALE IN "SONG OF MYSELF"
In 1959,I was a very unsettled youth, wanting to get out of high school and into the real world. I wanted adventure. I wanted to find love and romance--I had heard it was a lot of fun to be in love and look into the eyes of a lover, in my case I was seeking a charming lady, a beautiful woman who would fulfill every youthful fantasy I had ever entertained about love and romance.
For awhile, I saw myself going to Paris and living in an attic or garret, painting oils of the Seine, the buildings of the left bank, wandering around in the fog in a Paris night and miraculously meeting the woman of my dreams. She was a brunette in a coat with a flaired collar and she was wearing heels. Her eyes were dark and misty, but so alive with passion and expectations.
She was leaning against a lamp post smoking a cigarette, a lonely sort with eyes that sparkled through the fog. Our eyes would meet, I told myself, and we would only say a few words, for we knew that we had met our destined love. And then into the little bistros to drink wine and stare into each other's souls. There was the candle in the bottle with the wax dripping. There was a tablecloth of red and white checkered gingham.
Yes, there would be those early moments before the sunrise when there were soft whispers. And we would tour the Louvre, hand in hand, and life would be a great love affair filled with oil paintings, novels laying about our place overlooking the Seine, in view of the Eiffel tower of course.
And the wine would always be sweet and keep our lips moist with passion. That would be the life, the Strauss version of the "Artist's Life" and the French music would always be within earshot of our windows overlooking the streets of Paris. Life would be so great I would never have to board a tramp steamer to seek my love and fame and fortune.
All of that would come for I was young and would be young forever. There was nothing like age. Age was a myth, for I saw no change in her face or mine as our life in Paris grew larger than life itself. Youth, eternal youth. There was no such element as time to disturb our lively steps and our inhalation of the air that was forever fresh with the fragrance of her essence and the flowers from the vendors who passed by our widows below.
We had it all, youth, wine, roses and all the time. We would read and read more; we would write and paint. We would dance the nights away in some brick-walled basement bistro, we would.....we would dance...we would never look at clocks or calendars.....we were young.
By Robert L. Huffstutter
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