Baltimore to Paris (1995); or, The Post-Modern Epimetheus


2 April 2019> Switched from Embassy Row to The Line (using up free hotel credits). Fooly immersed back in Textiloma ("SSEY' v. II), witch now we're thinking we're gonna add the sub-title: or, The Post-Modern Epimetheus, as a sort of nod to Mary Shelley. See, the movie that both Telemachus + Ulysses work on w/in the libro (that also inspired Marsupial) is a retelling of sorts of Frankenstein, but since the Academy Award-winning director of said movie don't want us using his reel name, in stead we're saying Spike 'Jonez' is the director, wich ain't so much of a stretch as our co-authoring brother Ulysses knew Spike. Little none fact is dat Prometheus had a brother—Epimetheus—literraly "after-thought" (whereas Prometheus means "fore-thought"). They was both tasked by the Titans to create lifeforms… Epimetheus blew his wad giving all the animals cool traits butt by the time he god to man, he’d run out of juice... dat’s when Prometheus stepped in + stole fire from the dogs + gave hit to man + dat’s what sets humuns apart from animals is this spark of life + dat’s probly why every 1 nose who Prometheus be, cuz we’re a narcissistic species as a hole. Bud if u aks inny other animal bet they worship Epimetheus as their hero, as do I, anon I'm us.

3 April> Hanging in B'more for the week cuz it's cheaper than D.C. We're about ⅓ the way thru Textiloma; or, The Post-Modern Epimetheus, on the chapter corresponding to where Telemachus + Ulysses are reunited, after Telemachus goes on his mini-Odyssey retracing their father's footsteps to find him. This correosponds to the trip we took to Sur America in 1991, but when we came back to the U.S. from Peru we was only back for a few dayzzz before we set off to Mexico to see the solar eclicpse on July 11, 1991. In Rome last month we anticipated that we'd want to mine this Mexico '91 journel for Textiloma + transcribed it, but thing is we forgot to copy that file over to our laptop or put it on dropbox! So both the only softcopy + hardcopy are in a container right now, probly in the port of Naples + we won't be reunited w/ our mothership machine for another month.

4 April> Just stepped out to get groceries + it smacked of a movie prop for a “seedy” or sketchy urban street scene (we’re staying next door to the Hustler’s club if that’s any indication—Commerce St. + E. Baltimore Ave.—+ pawn shops what say "WE BUY GOLD in whatever shape or form, including teeth")… grubby guys nodding off or staggering around like zombies all over the place, or trying to find places to jab needles into themselves + all these hookers + strippers taking cigarette breaks outside those clubs (a block from City Hall, mind u). Cars that say “CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATION” in big letters everywhere. Baltimore seems worse than ever.

5 April> Just cuz we forgot to xfer a soft-copy of above mentioned journull from 1991 don't mean we can't continue to archive other journull entries wile we're holed up in this hotel, specially considering as it's raining. Again, not dat we'll nessysorrily use this material in Textioloma, but it's an excuse for us to transcribe them here on online where they can live searchable on Inurnet + hyperlink to other journulls + Inurnet at large. Post-1995 we started keeping journulls digitally on our computers (tho a lot of these files are outdated + a pain to access) + our last hand-written journull from the end of 1994 we already transcribed, documenting our experiencing working on the above-mentioned film in Nice. But we din't post the tail-end of that journel, when we stopped over in Paris on the way home, so that seems a good enough place as any to pick up where we left off. Also apropros since our bedder-½ happens to be teaching a class in Paris this morning.... no, she didn't fly there, she's doing whatever video-confrencing thing academics use, global classroom or sum such thing. It don't matter where u r no more. Don't think we had a camera back then in '91, these accompanying pics were likely sent to us by "friends" i was with at the time, most of whom i've lost touch with, hope they don't mined we posted this if they happen upon it, if u do or just want to say hi, contact us:

January 7, 1995 — Paris!
Got into Orly after a "peasant class" (as Roger says) flight with Richard, while Tom Richmond was in 1st. Took a cab to Hotel St. Jacques on Rue des'Ecole where E.J. had booked us reservations. It's a little out of my price range, but I'm just going with the flow. Slept on the floor cuz Richard snores + talks in his sleep as if he's in a perpetual drunken stupor. Called up Benoit when we got in and his "party" was more of a dinner party so we met up with Thierry LeRoq and Thierry Verrier. Cool to see them in Paris, they seem more at home here than Nice. Drank a bottle of wine in Tom's room on the top floor. Le Roq brought his Venezuelan friend Leandro along. Another A.D. We went to 'Lili leTigresse', this seedy bar that was red + smoky + had scantily clad dancers up on the bar, some of whom were gorgeous. They'd go up to the 2nd floor on a firepole. Tres bizarre. Then we went to meet Benoit at around 1 a.m. at this dinner party at a Senegalese restaurant. All film journalists who worshipped Roger, thought Killing Zoe was amazing. They moved the party downstairs to dance. Richard + Tom got very wasted (free alcohol, ginger wine). I just sat on the steps and talked with Thierry V. about writing and lusted after this incredible looking chic who was dating the host Marc. When I'd comment about it, Leroq or someone would say "well then go talk to her, here do you want me to introduce her to you?"
     "No!  Get back here. Can't someone just look at someone and just admire them for their looks?  I don't want to meet her. Anyone that looks that good is probably full of herself."

moi (w/ Fuct hat), Siri + Richard

Jan. 8, 1995 —
Woke up on a few hours of sleep and just had to see what all the hype was about in the daylight. C'est Paris. What is Paris?  It's a legacy of human nature, it's history enshrined in its buildings + streets, it's a living organism w/ a soul that transcends generations. Who's responsible for the feel of Paris?  Politicians?  Artists?  Architects?  It's its own entity. Where does it come from? From what seeds did it spawn. (Hector's brother, the lazy womanizer, stealer of Helen, the cause for the whole battle of Troy?  What makes this beast keep ticking? People get fed, traffic flows + furnaces burn. Statues everywhere like ghosts. Pigeons in gothic gray awnings, the brown river Seine eternally flowing, the same river as it ever was. For what is a city sans une grande rivière? And Notre Dame in its intermolecular structure like a metaphor for folding in, a form that spans deep into the human psyche of what was + will be eternally a-mazing. It just sucks you in + you can't resist.
     C'est Paris, seductive avec plus de eye candy— it's soul candy. It's the feeling it gives you, not the sights you see. I don't know what to say about what I've done since I've been here, I've just been swept through the streets + the metro. The first day I took the requisite walking tour— Pantheon— Musee Rodin— Eifel Tower—Triumph Arch thing—cruised the wide Champs Elyseés— Louvre—Notre Dame—and back to the hotel. Richard wasn't there, but the phone rang the second I walked in the door and it was him. He cruised by the hotel to get me to go out with some of his 'Parisian friends'. Sidi—this Laotian hipster designer—his gorgeous, homely English girlfriend Janet—this woman Celine, that looks like a small Susan Sarandon—and this girl Elodee that is one of the most passionate people I've ever met, at least on 1st impression. Not that she's particularly beautiful, she just has this contagious passion for life.
     Everybody drinks before the war.
     We all went out and roamed the cold wet streets and ended up at this Irish pub for a Guiness and then this restaurant Beger where we feasted. I started with escargot and then a bottomless cheese fondue. We all shared our things, washed down with a few bottles of fine wine. We left reeking of cheese. Thought to get Tom after we passed a Little Odessa poster. This guy at the hotel said he'd gone to restaurant Beger. Sure enough, of all the restaurants in Paris, he was there sitting at the same table next to the one we were just at. He had just started in so we told him to meet us at Lili Le Tigresse.
     Went underground + emerged somewhere else which I have no idea where it is in relation to things above ground, but it doesn't matter. Lili's was a little less crowded but more on the bizarre side— an African musician with a trendy Parisian juggler juggling neon balls—girls dressed up in bathrobes and mimes performing surreal skits—and your  menagerie of exotic dancers. We got a table and everyone drank Margaritas except me, I drank beer. Tom and Francois, the publicist for Killing Zoe (and Little Odessa) came by. The funniest part of the evening is that we all reeked of cheese... people would come to our table ane start talking, then say, "I smell cheese" and we'd all start cracking up. We were smelling the whole place with a stuffy, sultry, cheesy smell. And Elodee, a little high on Margaritas, gave us a parting speech on the benefits of eating oranges and walking to cleanse your skin + flush out the smell. It was a grand night, and I picked a black gummy bear at the door so I got in for free. Nevertheless the whole evening set me back about 700 francs. C'est Paris.

art lovers (Thierry V + Richard)

January 10, 1995— ORLY —>  LAX
My heart is empty and sore leaving Paris. I haven't felt like this since I was a kid (littler kid) and had that 3-day weekend at the beach in Seaside and then we had to go back to Portland and I just started bawling and crying and Shirley [stepmother] was giving me that "there must be something else wrong" routine, prying. And that hurt me to not just be able to cry without an explanation, never having that feeling of unconditional understanding. And it drove that emotion deep back into me like a self-inflicted wound all just cuz I had a sad longing to go back to the beach. It made me never want to have fun again. Or the other time in the den with Shirley, I got in trouble because I was seen across Jamieson road and I started crying and admitted that I kissed Nancy Reed (on the tennis court in the park) and she kept prying, making me feel more guilty—"then why are you crying so much if you only kissed her?  It's o.k. to tell me—did you get into her panties?"  Something strange about having a non-biological mother say that, it sunk deep. It was almost verbal child molesting, made me feel strange about my sexuality when all I did was kiss Nancy Reed in the 5th grade.
     Over the Atlantic again. I'm really bummed about going back but it's something I must do before I get sucked in like Richard did. He revoked his ticket and stayed and I'm not even sure whether Tom is on the flight. I have no idea what I'll do when I arrive at LAX nine hours from now. Three days in Paris— probably the most intense 3 days I've ever spent. Monday I woke up and walked around more, then met Richard at Notre Dame, the atomic cathedral, vaulted with mandala rose windows. We tried seeing the DelaCroix exhibit but it was closed. Thierry Verrier met us and we went to the Pompadou center instead. A very intense building, all the guts are on the outside. I had been here earlier when it was closed and had one of those Parisian poetic moments in the square in front—I just stood there in the middle of it absorbing the sights + sounds.
         So Thierry, Richard + I went to the Pompadou and saw some exhibit on the history of film in France, saw fantastic clips of early films, then went through a few other exhibits. We ate smoked salmon in hollandaise sauce over toast at some little cafe. Continually overwhelmed by the food, you just can't find bad food in Paris. We went to Thierry's flat in the 17th district. His apartment was modern and simple. I like Thierry a lot. He's got a mellow temperament and is just an all-around solid person. We were supposed to meet Sidi + Elodee at Crazy Horse but Richard shut Thierry's keys in his apartment. He had to drive to his parents place in the suburb to get a spare and meanwhile Richard + I tubed back to St. Jacques so I could change my shoes (otherwise we wouldn't get in) + rushed back through the metro, running between trains since we were running late, lots of transfers, then we had just a few minutes so we surfaced and jumped into a cab and made it just in time.
     Elodee's friend Herman was the grandson of the founder of Crazy Horse (or something like that) so we got in gratis. It wasn't until we walked in the door that we realized what we were in for. Probably the bizarrist hour and a half of my life. We entered this cabaret room that was all red velvet with champagne buckets.... something out of a David Lynch film, waiters in tuxedos, surreal music + lighting + sparkly blue curtains. At least a dozen naked woman dressed as "God Save our Bareskins" guards stomping around and riding conveyor belts across stage, saluting. They were perfectly sculpted super models that looked exactly the same.
     (I'm on the plane back to L.A. and Richard's not here, but Tom came back to peasant class to visit me. I was denied access  to him because he's in 1st. Now he's back scamming on little Tahitian boys.)
     Anyway, Crazy Horse—the girls were like little puppets or dolls that fit on stage like matches in a matchbox. Their performances were flawless. It made it unreal and not even erotic or sexy. There were 18 different numbers, 2 of which weren't strip performances. One was this comedian/magician who spoke in Spanish and poked fun at the many Japanese businessmen. And there was this strange neon puppet show which was probably the best skit of them all. The show was genius and mind-altering. I was continually in awe, it transcended the meaning of entertainment. The clientelle made it even stranger, businessmen and their wives, all taking it very seriously. We were laughing hysterically. It was high art at its best, the lighting, music, the art direction— perfectly executed.
     We ate Sushi afterwards, yet another sensual epicurean engorgement in Paris. Then we had a nightcap or 2 at some bar who knows where. Madonna was there, she had an entire room blocked off for her and her entourgage, but Richard got past the red velvet rope cuz he knows her assistant, Fatima. I'm still entranced by Elodee, but so is Richard, tho he has a lot of irons in the fire. It's not even like she's attractive or anything, there's just something in her enthusiasm and passion for life that's contagious. Another night of Richard snoring and psychotic sleep ranting. Woke up early again and packed my bags, then met Elodee at the Jardin de las plants. Walked around there then met everyone else at the Delacroix exhibit where Sidi styled us with tickets, and we by-passed the long line. Unbelievable show. We travelled to Morocco in the 1830's. Delacroix kept these elaborate journals/sketchbooks full of amazing water color drawings. The building itself (Institut du Monde Arabe) has a wall of shutters that actually dialate according to sunshine levels. Delacroix's journals made me so jealous. I could care less about his paintings. It's the journals and sketches, the committing one-chance watercolor sketches exposing his raw talent, train of personal thought and a scientific recording of his travels. I'm not being very well spoken about all this, so much stuff that has inspired me that I'm brain dead and overwhelmed. A super-saturated sponge.
     We rushed to meet Richard's other squeeze he's working, Savina. Had coffee in one of many cool little cafes near the Luxemborg gardens. Richard debated, while the rest of us egged him on, whether he should he should stay or go. In the end he went for broke and decided to stay in Paris and spend all his money he made in Nice.

outside the Institut du Monde Arabe

[... continuation of journal, in California + Mexico]

630 <( current)>  632 > Bodymore soñaring back to an '80s dream state
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