The Moulin Rouge

Ten years ago I watched a movie that had such a profound impact on my life. I became obsessed (as I so often do) with Moulin Rouge. I saw it 6 times in theatres and could recite it word for word. To this date, I own 5 copies of it on both DVD and VHS; I have both soundtracks (2 copies of the first) and the cardboard ad from the theatre.  As the years went by, I couldn't let go of the enchanted red windmill.  Somewhere around 2006/7 I got it tattooed on my back. It's my most spectacular tattoo; 3.5 hours of pure, nerve splitting pain.  Years later, and I still stare at it every time I step out of the shower.  Over the years, it's also come to mean something completely different to me.

It used to symbolize my true and undying love for art and Bohemia.  I used to live a penniless existence, lighting incense at 3 am writing bad poetry.  I had a red light in my room, and I would wear my black custom made fedora that a friend gave me and I would pretend I was a writer.  I'd spend my evenings in the theatre, community theatre, so you know I was all about the art... ;) I had multiple affairs with the moon. I miss those days when everyday was an adventure.

Now, it represents everything I abandoned; everything I so callously walked away from. When I graduated university I gave it an honest go; but ultimately, creativity and art didn't pay the rent and I was on a one way street to nowhere. I walked away. My friends called me a sell out. A traitor. It stung at the time, but I learned to make peace with it. I didn't have it in me to continue a penniless existence. I needed a steady income. Since then, there's been such a huge disconnect between me and the one thing that makes me truly happy. Though I hate musicals, when I see one (especially live), something ignites within me; it feels like wasted destiny.  I'm the one who should be up on stage signing and dazzling the crowd. Whenever I think about it (and I try not to) it stings so bad... it almost takes my breath away. And despite what everyone says, time isn't on my side and it's quickly running out. In my next life I want to be a vintage microphone, 50s style.

Sometimes I feel like my life is an old movie, where there's a young hotshot who knows everything, and there's a dying old lady living in a decrepit house at the end of the street. She's a loner, a shut in.  The kids in the neighborhood say she's a witch; she's got spiders living in her hair and she talks to her dead cats. The young hotshot is intrigued and finds out that in the 1930's she was queen of the burlesque in Paris, France. She's suffered heartache and tragedy and had retired  at the height her her fame and glory. He decided to make a documentary.  He tried communicating with the old recluse, but she pushes him away; the way she pushes everyone.  They finally connect through some cheesy scene where he shows her kindness and a piece of her ice heart melts. He tried to convince her there's so much out there. He tried to dazzle her with her knowledge; she regales  him with stories of the Moulin Rouge in it's heyday. She used to know everyone. But now, her memory is like a faded picture, and she can barely remember the colours. She sees herself reflected in the gleam of the hotshot's eye; her eyes once burned with such passion. But the world is such a drastically different place now, she can't possibly make her way back. And she never does.  The end credits roll and there's a final note: the woman died alone and anonymous. No one showed up at her funeral; even the hotshot gave up on her.

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