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Rimbaud Interviews Rimbaud

Jenene Ravesloot

Now that you ask, I always wanted crimson walls and crimson marble floors. I never got them. What’s that? Oh, yes! It was just my luck to fall for an older man. He was so conventional. Nothing but beige walls for him. To tell you the truth, I found our little two-year affair a bit of a bore. And, that wife of his! But that’s another story. You see, I wanted crimson walls, the crimson of a blood-splashed carcass. I wanted crimson walls and crimson marble floors and a real carcass that I could hang from the ceiling. I wanted blood-spattered walls. I wanted to feast on that color while I smoked hashish, preferably alone. I wanted brass trumpets to blare their sumptuous reds through the stereo. But I’m ahead of myself. Stereos hadn’t been invented. Oh, well! I wanted that red in all its permutations: a banquet of reds, an army of reds, an Alhambra of reds. But my man couldn’t understand. What’s with your passion for crimson walls and crimson marble floors, he’d ask, as if he really wanted to know. I couldn’t answer. But I suspect it had something to do with La mother and that red, red mouth of hers.

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