Anna-Marie With Her Shotgun -- Part Six -- Anna-Marie -- Anna Remembers Poe

When I had read about Edgar Allen Poe I had only ever learned of his work as I had reached the new world. Here it wasn't entirely sure how to feel about him. By this point he had already reached a level of cultural phenomenon that had probably himself would have never anticipated. But there was something about the man that drew me to him, unlike even my husband. There was something innately special about how he would go on to meet various women across his life, always being romantically confused about whom he really loved. But whom he loved more than anyone else, was extremely obvious. He was not subtle about it in the least.

He loved a young girl, like I was, who was merely twenty one, and dying from what we no call tuberculosis. Edgar Allen Poe had decided to marry her after being rejected by his childhood friend Virginia Clem. And she had already been a fiancée of another man. When I read of his autobiography, it was difficult to not somewhat feel sorry for him, compared to other men, despite him apparently being a douche bag to other fans of his work. But for me, with every man that I've known besides my husband basically being assholes, it was difficult to find myself agreeing with them. His work would be taught at the Universities, where my daughter's friends would put on various adaptation of his plays.

The Black Cat, the story of a haunted black cat. It was one of the more interesting of his short stories that I would read later in my life. And it is this life that found myself wanting to be a part of some of his fictional stories, though of what implication I know not. When you're stuck in a life of not trusting anybody, sometimes it's easier to let one's mind wander, rather than think of any kind of present pain. My family visited Baltimore, but also bits of other places in Virginia where Poe grew up. It was vary different from The Black Forest, but many other ways surprisingly similar.

But now under rows of large roads, and early motored gliders, this city life had abandoned much of its charm from old Alsace, and it was difficult to find a French-American man. I ate at the dirtiest of French restaurants, and watched young girl play with holographic phones. When in my old country, we had barely even learned what a morse code was up until around the eighteen eighties.

So now here I was, living at the turn of the century, wondering why it was I tended to live much longer than other girls that were born around the earliest part of the nineteenth century. I had seen much, from rolling horse carts to the birth of the automobile. And now on black and white television, there is talks of Germans invading the coast of Mexico.

I think of accordion mixing with Flamenco.

And distaste the idea of a dance. Except my own dance with death, my own looming desires for the grave. My own desires to me with my family again, despite them being long dead. And living in a country that was no my home. Wondering why anyone would ever want to visit Alsace. Life flowing life some deranged tap dancing funeral march, life flowing like colors of the rainbow from a sunny rainy sky, the sky of which hidden by layers of toxic gas.

Farewell to old sass.

Farewell to laughing gas.

posted by JustSarah @ 22nd Sep 2018, 6:22 PM