Afternoon Thoughts

I wish I could wear a knee length skirt, preferably a polka dotted one, with a white lace covered blouse and a pearl necklace down the streets, eating ice cream and just seeing the beauty in everything. Watching as gentlemen pass by tipping their hats off to me; and seeing the ladies in their morning dresses heading to work, adding the finishing touches to their make up in their cars.

I wish I was a bit slimmer, a bit taller. I wish I was at peace with how I look and how I behave. I wish I was a delicate 1940s, 22-year old lady licking her ice cream peacefully, while humming a radio tune that just won't come out. I wish my days would be reading endlessly about everything and anything with Chopin in the background or Mathew Fisher. I would read about Sufism, Scientology, contemporary poetry and literature by day and go to the museums in the afternoon and end my day by getting ready to go to the Opera wearing a little black dress, white pearls and ruby lipstick and nail polish. Maybe add to the ensemble a pretty fur coat to add an air of mystery and luxury.

I wish I had my own room painted in green with a huge mahogany library that contains treasures from all over the world. I wish that room had fresh white tulips on a daily basis with sunlight coming through my large balcony; the one where I would be sipping green tea in, while listening to Um Kalthoum.

I wish my hair was thicker and richer in colour and I wish my fridge would never run out of dark, bitter chocolate that either adds to the irony called life or soothes your feelings after a really rough day.
I wish for what cannot be changed. This is my parallel universe where every Saturday I meet with poets and authors long gone, forgotten and dead and talk to them, discuss with them, figure out what they had in mind while writing this or that line, trying to unfold the traumas they went to get to grasp their genius better.
I wish I met Freud, sat on a leather arm chair drinking freshly squeezed lemonade while telling him all my little dark secrets, allowing myself to get a proper psychoanalysis once and for all.

I wish I could meet Van Gogh and ask him, was your lover worth the pain you went through cutting your ear for her? Don't you regret it? I wish I could meet Dali, and get to be part of his mad world, maybe manage to inspire a painting or two, to be immortalized till Doom's day.

My wishes are surreal. They are to be enjoyed from afar. My La-la land includes me running towards the Heights and giving Catherine Earnshaw a good piece of my mind, acting as a gypsy, a fortune-teller letting her know that her wicked ways will result in nothing but sadness to all whom you claim you love, that Heathcliff has vowed vengeance on you and your husband. That being a brat will hurt you more than anyone else. If she doesn't listen to me, or worse if she ridicules me then a good old slap on the face does has never hurt anyone before, but can easily help people to snap put of their cockiness. If that doesn't work, well murder would then sound as a great solution and she would be the one to blame.

I would go to Mr. Darcy, knock on his door, ask for an interview with him and as we fall into awkward silence, for he is to me a man with great communication issues, I would simply inform him that I of all women and little girls have never, not even once fell for your wicked charms, that you are not all that. You are cold and insensitive and you know how to make a girl wish she has never set eye on you.

In my 1940s era, I have been contemplating whether or not am I to take the invention of the internet with me, I have decided against it. Part of the magic was the wait, it adds to the overall sweetness of the thing. It would also be of great aid for me, for patience is a virtue I sadly don't possess.

In my era, I have decided that I will not follow Simone De Beauvoir’s footsteps, nor the traditional footsteps. In my era, I am to explore all the above. Finding a spouse or love is not among it. I don't know whether or not am I to have children there not because the hygienic world was far less modern than today's but because it would hinder me. How would I look if I am with Freud breastfeeding or burping my child? Or worse, how would Van Gough listen to me talk over the cries of the baby, would he be agitated, would he throw me out? How would I be Dali's source of inspiration? His muse? When I would be changing diapers and doing God knows what to whom?
How would I travel to Vienna, the Vatican City, Australia, London, Paris, and Sweden? I can pack for one person only, I could go for days without proper food, but a child, no way on earth would he/she settle for such a thing.
It sounds like an awfully abrupt ending but this is how thoughts work, they come and go all of a sudden. One either is lucky enough to catch the beginning of the thread, or keep on daydreaming, waving to it goodbye.

Okay now, I am done.