Anna Magnani was peeling herself out of a black satin slip, splashing in a small fountain, and sputtering in Italian while the women on the street around her were trying on clothing. Furiously.
It was all very Filene’s Basement. The original – in the 1960s.
But what was an Italian film icon doing in the middle of my Manolos and Louboutins, and sauntering models in Chanel and YSL? What happened to my very agreeable dream of a couture house in Paris? Where was the disintegrating imagery of French chic, my spot in the parade, and why the rapid changeover to a such a scrambled scene?
Guess I’ll never know.
As the alarm clock roused me out of that one, I literally had the image of a large white saucer (this time, very Alice in Wonderland at the Tea Party – no – not that tea party). On the plate sat little sandwiches but also tasks – words – written out and spilling over, because even the enlarged surface was too small to hold them all in place.
As I hauled myself toward verbal, serial, routine consciousness, my first articulated words were: another plate of crazy.
And here it is. Thursday. How could it only be Thursday?
If it’s Thursday, it isn’t Belgium
Where am I? Whose life is this?
Lately, I feel as though I’ve run a marathon (I haven’t), traveled the world (France and Italy apparently), and while those plagues that persisted throughout much of last year seem to have found another host household – curiouser and curiouser – I very well may have fallen down the Rabbit Hole. Now that one is more likely. Because as I wake to my “real life” – I definitely feel the oddity of the brimming heap of tasks and the absurdity of how I’m spending my time at the moment.
Spaghetti for dinner tonight? Spaghetti Western with a side of Magnani?
No thanks.
Spaghetti for brains is sufficient.
My So-Called French Chic Life?
And my dip into a little subconscious French couture? For real this time? Any element of a lifestyle I might recognize in my sleeping or waking days and nights? My once imagined fashionable life?
And how impoli that when I’m basking in silk, slipping into gorgeous skirts and blouses, elegant dresses and dynamite footwear, I don’t get to admire myself in the mirror (of my dreams), ignore the price tag, and stroll the rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré – at least for a few minutes?
- Ever feel like the life you wake up to belongs to someone else?
- Have you tumbled down the rabbit hole, and can’t climb out?
- Ever feel like each task tossed onto the heap is so ridiculous you can’ t even be upset about it because it’s… well, ridiculous?
Can’t wait to see what the day brings. Maybe my plate’s capacity needs a little chunk of sustenance with a tag attached that says “Eat Me.” And rather than this little Alice enlarging, might the saucer of my dreams expand its capacity and then my cup won’t runneth over?
Anna Magnani image source: Wiki; thumbnail. Click Manolo to access original and details, at NeimanMarcus.com.
© D A Wolf
Ah, the fantasy life vs. the real life. I’ve been noodling this idea around in my head for a while now. Anna Magnani is so earthy and sensual. I wonder if that part of you is wanting to be more “exposed?”
Ha! Excellent!
Memories of different realities — Filene’s Basement — the real one. The store with weekly markdowns until it gave away any stock that had been sitting in their open bins for more than four weeks. My sister and mother (and everybody else) trying on clothes for size (before there were dessing rooms). I found (and gleefully bought) a switchblade that was in a box of Italian kitchen knives and small folding knives.
My fantasy life isn’t too different from my real life nowadays. Maybe I’m getting dull. Maybe I’m fortunate. I’m hoping for a chance for winter backpacking, but not sure if I’ll get the opportunity. Fantasize that this country comes to its senses and realizes that there can be no peace, here or elsewhere, without true justice. Or maybe simply fantasize that my stepson will soon get re-employed as a computer networker (after having been with us the past month).
My “reality” these days is somewhere between Lewis Carroll on a Fantastic Voyage, Kafka (on a bad day), and Twilight Zone (with better footwear). Backpacking in a French fountain with a baguette, good cheese, and a bottle of red – that would work for me about now.
Hope your fantasies move closer to reality, Paul. . .