La surrealism c'est moi
I made way to the Espace Dalí, a museum of the great surrealists predilections and dreams. I walked down the staircase and simply said: wow. There was the Emperor of Montmarte building his Quixote kingdom on the Parisian hills.
Everything you can imagine is real
Dalí made it so. In giant bronze melting clocks.
In an elephant with bronze tusks, with the legs of a giraffe, carrying a giant jade obelisk (space elephant)
If my words did glow, I couldn't illuminate the creations in their full surreal glory.
And his surreal water colors, and tarot dreams.
Forks slithering out of silver snails; spoons made of shells
Dalí, what is your secret of success?
Providing the right honey for the right fly at the right time and place
Are you always so sure of yourself?
Well, I have a few minor inner conflicts
And the coup de grâce:
I don't do drugs. I am drugs.
I wandered out down Montmarte's cobblestone lanes, past tilting windmills until I found my tilted cafe. I sat on the incline hill, staring at the resplendent Invalidies, drinking bergerac and medoc, as I chatted with some English tourists on holiday. The sun intermittently appeared from behind the day's grey clouds and licked my face with its effulgent glow.