The poetry of Stephane Mallarmé is part of what inspired me to come to Paris. Called ‘le poet du néant’ or the poet of nothingness, by J-P Sartre, he has influenced several generations of artists and thinking about words and the white space around the written word. In visiting his country house in Vulaine-sur-Seine recently, I discovered a striking experience we both share. Mallarmé’s mother died when he was seven. He and his sister were raised by their grandmother, who loved them fiercely. But mostly, I can’t get over the hole in the front steps of his doorway. Witnessed by […]

Going away on a trip plays elastic with my sense of time. If I imagined my life like a long thread, a trip would be a fold in the line. If I were to follow all the way into and around the fold-line it would seem very long, but if I jump from my departure point to the returning point, the gap is very short. One week away with Paul to the south of France was both short and long. The Mediterranean Sea kisses like the mother of all seas -so very salty, so very blue, so very clear and […]

As people, our parents remain unknown to us. They will always be first and foremost, our mother and our father -that mirror of ourselves we love and we hate. Thursday marked a year since Paul’s mom, Audrey passed away. To remember her, Paul organized his family on-line, with an invitation to share stories either in writing or in person via skype. It was a good idea and it made us both feel a little bit closer to everyone. This afternoon I took a string of letters that spelled her name to a place on Île-St-Louis where I can walk down […]

Socrates famously said that the unexamined life is not worth living, but examination is a small and painstaking activity that takes place in the folds of the very ordinariness of our lives. Good philosophy – which is like good literature in this respect – constantly brings us back to ourselves. Andrew Lawless, Plato’s Sun: An Introduction to Philosophy. I peddle down that long combination of Rivoli and Champs-Elysée that will take me all the way across the city. My lungs are on fire with so much traffic and I am making mental notes of things to write about as they […]

I realize I am a tad superstitious. This surprises me. This entry normally would have come a while ago, but words resonate with an aura of magic and as much as I am enchanted by them, I fear black magic. I rarely mention my friend Nancy, but she is so much with me here in thought. All the time. Silence seemed the safer course. Today, she will begin to uncurl from a sojourn of sleep and recupperation after another chemo treatment and today I will try to stay the words from a moment shared with her.  One month ago or […]

“(..) it is healthy to look at sadnessin the world, and in yourself, and to dwell on it for a little while. (this work is ballast to that obsession……about happiness)” Nicole Eisenman     https://artforum.com/words/id=21064 For most of my adult life, I believed being happy was what was important. Then at some point, I felt maybe, peace or some kind of inner calm was what I should be striving for. Now, I sense that this comes and goes and I just want to live, whatever that is – a kind of direction without destination is how Elisabeth Grosz describes it (Becomings).  Life […]

I am in Berlin. I am as close to Paul as physically possible. If this were my last day on earth, this is how I would spend it. He is playing scrabble on the internet with Nancy. The sun is warming the wall opposite our bedroom window and it looks like another nice day. Paul has decided to play hookey from his German classes, so we can spend the day together. We love and we laugh at the craziness of some German words: Krankenhaus – that’s hospital and an ambulance: Krankenwagon. Nouns are always capitalized. Where else in the world […]

I imagine meeting my mother in Paris. She would like it here. For a few weeks, I imagine Paris is my mother. I read, La mort douce de ma mere, by Simone de Beauvoir and I hear Simone laugh as she whispers in my ear, “Paris maternal? Don’t be deceived by all those female statues. They’re only allegories, a picture of a feminine word, empty words; a mythical, romantic, male notion about femininity, nothing more, nothing less. Yes, even La Grisette. Can’t you smell the piss everywhere? If you want your mother, you will have to dig deeper than that.” […]

I push at words all week, but they refuse to make a line. I climbed into bed with one word, wait. This morning, I went running. Stir up the blood, as my Grandmother would say, but it also clears my mind. Ideas started to come and I can’t stop to write, so I have to count on my feet to pound the rhythm of the words and images into my memory. I ran to Le Jardin des Plantes, a perfect place for chasing chaos and order. This past week has been very chaotic, with many hellos and goodbyes. A lot […]