the feast stands still

À l’arrivée de pâques, et le fin de carême, j’ai commencé de penser sur les implications religieux dans le titre A Moveable Feast. Pourquoi Hemingway, un homme qui se semble athée, sans aucun impression d’avoir les tendances religieux, a choisi ce nom si connoté pour sa mémoire, m’intrigue. Il n’y a pas des leçons morales religieux dans son livre, sauf les empreintes de l’ascétisme, suivi par les périodes d’indulgence et de luxe. S’il n’y a pas des leçons si religieux prescrit par Hemingway, il y a beaucoup des traces religieux dans ses actions. Par example, le Bel Esprit, qui était fondé au nom de l’honneur des hommes, est un caractéristique de la fraternité, nommé par la religion abrahamique. Ezra Pound se semble un homme sans religion soi-même, mais son caractère est augmenté par les bons mérites qui sont imprégné par la religion, comme Hemingway.

With the arrival of Easter, and the end of Lent, I began to think about the religious implications in the title A Moveable Feast. Why Hemingway, a man who comes off as atheist, without any impression of religious tendencies or habits, chose this name, which is so heavily connoted for his memoir, intrigues me. There are no religious lessons in his book, save for traces of asceticism, followed by periods of indulgence and luxury. If there are no religious lessons prescribed by Hemingway, there is a religious hue to his actions. For example, the Bel Esprit, which was founded in the name of the honor of men, is a characteristic of the brotherhood which abrahamic religion teaches. Ezra Pound seems a man without religion himself, but his character is augmented by the lessons which are steeped in religion, like Hemingway.

Teju

I’ve gotten into the habit of taking walks in the late afternoon, after I’ve finished with the mundanity of sitting at home doing the same repetitive work. I walked up towards Monceau Park, following my intuitive sense of direction. There, there are runners with their neon shorts and matching neon shoes, imitating the American tendency to make a neon sign for everything.

I thought back to the New York skyline, where energy is radiating from everything. There is a bagel shop on 9th and University, called Bagel Bob’s, where I would get dinner on occasionally, after my allergist appointment. I would sit and eat watching the rain, and the people passing by with their temporary umbrellas. Sometimes when it rained I would take my longest walks — often to Central Park — with the intention of getting wet.

In November, when the weather just started to turn, I would walk up 1st until it disappeared into wasteland, then make a left onto 27th or so, and walk to 3rd, and then right, all the way up to Central Park. I walked past trash cans, overflowing with Subway and Starbucks cups. On trash day, there would be black bags piled high like the Pyramids, excessive waste entombing the concrete below. Often I wonder if trash is a product of New York, or New York a product of trash.

The sound of children’s laughter caught my attention, and there, at the entrance of the park, was a swarm of pre-teen aged children, fettered to their school. One girl walked through the park entrance to be greeted by some friends sitting on a bench to her left. She waved hello, then moved forward towards another group of girls who were smoking. I watched her navigate the sea of pre-teens to her friends, then I watched her sit down with them.

I walked further to the Jaurès stop, where I took the Metro to the Bastille to get some produce for the week. At the market, there were men shouting the prices of their fruits, luring customers in with their low prices and their plentiful fruit displays.

to be continued

Henry Miller

Henry Miller’s mind is Paris’ ancient labyrinthine geography. As Miller decides for himself in the Tropic of Cancer, “I made up my mind that I would hold on to

nothing, that I would expect nothing,” establishing himself as a self-directed buddhist and a bit of a obsessive existentialist. Emily described him as “self-indulgent”, which I took to mean gluttonous, lustful, etc, when in actuality, she had meant it in the sense of indulgent in one’s self, more commonly known as egotism.

At one point, reading something like this would have installed in me confidence in knowing that my own similar thoughts and epiphanies had registered in other people as well, allowing me to breach out of my shyness and verbalize if not put into practice those ideologies. At this point in my life, reading this is not only boring but also a little disheartening, as I ask myself, is this all there is to learn? I know, of course, that there are thousands upon thousands of textbooks and continuous research, entire fields dedicated to finding the truth behind our world and the mysteries within it, yet the more I learn, the more I realize the triviality of information. This is among many reasons why I appreciate Lang so much, as it esteems informed opinion over excess of facts. Facts are false and often skewed by time, however truth is eternal.

Several questions arose in my mind when I was reading the excerpt from Henry Miller’s Walking Up and Down in China. Had Henry Miller just come to this state of understanding when he wrote this excerpt, or had he been harboring them until this point and finally got the drug-induced opportunity to write them? Had he read about the ideas? Did he come up with them himself? Are these realizations simply universal truths that are accessible to everyone, yet accessed by only some?

While reflecting on Henry Miller, I got an urgent craving for Nirvana’s Come As You Are, which makes me wonder if Miller and Nirvana have some kind of latent relationship: perhaps Kurt Cobain’s, “I'd rather be hated for who I am, than loved for who I am not” philosophy, which Miller most definitely would subscribe to were he had been born a century later. In fact, I would rather say Miller is the Kobain of his generation, though I’m sure that’s an offensive statement to some. 

In recent weeks, I have felt a return to a version of myself which was very fondly missed. Perhaps it was the decision to be this person that I made, or the decision to follow the fondness of the heart, rather than the logic of the head, an idea which Miller brushes upon.

The following excerpt, the essay titled “The Sexual Geography of Expatriate Paris”, was a bit shocking and focused more on the sexual aspects of Anaïs Nin’s writing, rather than the emotional aspect of her overt sexuality, seeing her lewdness not as a manifestation symptomatic of her extremely strong interpersonal intuition (Nin was a Pisces sun, and a Libra rising), but as sexual explicitness for the sake of shock and awe. As an Aries, it is understandable that Donald Pizer simply does not understand such fluid boundaries between emotional and sexual desires, but instead sees it as, “a fusing of sexual and artistic expression,” (Pizer, 173). As a Libra rising, Nin’s expression is guided by Venus, and her life-long quest is to have a deep understanding of her ineffable emotions.

I think it is wrong of Pizer to characterize her writing as about her sexuality, but instead about her deep emotional pull towards Miller and his wife June, probably for the same reason anyone else is drawn to Miller, because of his essence of being, which is conveyed in his writing, and which separates him from any other author I’ve read. In my opinion, this ability that Miller has to express not his opinions or his thoughts, but himself, is what constitutes a truly great writer; Miller’s literature is like a horcrux in which he has eternally stored a part of his soul.

I do not wish to relate this to myself because I cannot do so without revealing much more of myself than I wish to right now on this public forum, but I most definitely feel a strong connection with Miller’s realizations, especially those about the future and the past, and those about metaphysical phenomena which are scoffed at by many. I do not consider myself a religious person in the sense that I have learned it to mean, but I know, secretly, am a very religious person as is Miller, and as is Nin. Again, not in the sense that I, or anyone else for that matter, would think it to mean. It is a subjective and florid religion, one with no definition and no gospel, no veda, no scripture, no psalm, though it is expressed in everything and everything is expressed in it.

Henry Miller is fearless.

familiar essay

an untitled paper

Paris is an expensive city, that cannot be contested. New York, however, is no more economical, yet, here in Paris I find myself writing and thinking constantly about money. I had previously seen it as disposable, until I lived without it, and immediately I realized how essential it truly is. Especially in a city like Paris, where nothing is free, and very few things are cheap, it is  crucial to save, yet somehow, inexplicably, money is always spent. It is often said that time is money, though I would argue that time is the inverse of money: the more you have of one, the less you have of the other. You cannot buy time, yet you can buy efficiency, or quality, both of which save time. If money is in surplus, the subject of one’s worrying can ascend from that of consuming for survival, to the survival for consumption. With no money, what does the poor man do with his time but work? He produces: art and artisan. The artist’s hard work is then, ironically, sold posthumously for sums of money that would have provided financial security for him, for the rest of his life, were he not dead; the artisan’s work is sold for revenue that is collected by people who have an excess of money.
We are obliged to spend money, to admire money, to desire money, and cultivate money, and at the end of our lives, we are buried in the ground, in a multi-hundred dollar box, with a multi-hundred dollar rock six feet above us, or we have the option to be incinerated via a multi-hundred dollar procedure and kept in a multi-hundred dollar urn, or scattered by family while on a multi-hundred dollar vacation. Money is omnipotent, money is omniscient, money is omnibenevolent.
Here in Paris, you can survive easily with only a few dollars a day. The Marché Bastille which is open jeudi et dimanche has a few vendors who sell produce for 1 euro a kilo, and dried beans for 3 euros a kilo. Eggs at Carrefour are 0,10 centièmes each (2,40 for a crate of 24 eggs), milk is 1,10 a litre, and coffee is 1,04 or so for a brick of vacuum packed espresso-ground beans. For about 30 euros a week, I can eat well, for 60 euros a week, I can eat like a king. I’ve managed to cut down my spending down incrementally each week, cutting more and more things out of my life that I do not need. I have been a bit stingy, but rightfully so, and it is making me feel more in control of my life. Eventually I will have a surplus of savings which will keep growing until I need it, or decide to spend it on something valuable.
In discussing finances with Amine, I realized that what he was saying about loans does not just apply to corporate investment, but also personal investment. He said that what is screwing up the economy is not the loan itself, but those which are given to buy consumable goods, rather than business investments, because the value of that good depreciates, but with interest the price of that good increases. I asked him why banks couldn’t just stop giving loans like that, he said if they did, the whole system would collapse. It is smart to invest, both time and money, into something that will produce more other things, whatever those things may be.
A large part of my abstractions with money is my relationship with my mother, who is supporting me while I’m here in Paris. Having to deal her pestering texts like, “the thing is I know you're spending money on fun as well and you are entitled to fun and I haven't been a student or in Paris for many years so I do t [sic] know but it just feels like you are burnig [sic] through cash and I didn't think that would be happening,” but with my weekly budget, I would qualify for the SNAP program in NYC, not to mention she is judging based on dollars and I am spending euros, a minor yet important difference. Once again, I am not complaining about the amount of money she is giving me, I am happy with what I have, but her behavior; her favoritism towards her greedy tendencies than to her generous ones, assuming that every time I initiate a conversation, it is because I need money, or threatening to pull the rug from under my feet, and suggesting that I don’t deserve the money that I am getting now. Several times now has she said that she would like to visit me while I am in Paris, “I'm thinking being in Paris with you would be something that I may never get to do again. File under ‘life's too short,’” yet if she can afford to buy a international flight in the height of travel season, why does she say I am reckless with money? Her supporting me has forced me to interact with her, more than I had been before, and now, I think of her involuntarily, I see my money as her money, which it is, but is also not. This change is difficult for me, and she as also given herself permission to text me about whatever, whenever, which is distracting and stressful for me because her whims are often driven by anger and paranoia, and I live my life in peaceful happiness when I am not forced into her world, which recently has been 5 or 6 times a week.
Additionally, I am getting needled for more money by my roommates with this 10 euro a month apartment fund, the government now with their OFII visa fee, my flatmate whose $25 lighter was stolen by a guy I invited over and now asks that I buy her a new one, on top of the already existing expenses of Navigo, books, groceries, etc., and the fact that it is very difficult to find work here, and that my mother is in constant communication with me is stressful. Plus with the school work that I have, and friends, and sleep, I feel like I am being quartered by the horses of money’s long-reaching fingers, with my limbs then to be sold for profit on the black market.

Perhaps I am over simplifying and thus romanticizing the idea of having a money free world, but I imagine that, were we to remove completely the trade of money and instead be returned to a bartering system based on good will and hard work, then the stratification of society would be evened and suffering would be eliminated. The cyclical and self correcting nature of Prana will provide for those who need when they need. Of course this does not happen and humans are natural hoarders, therefore they will collect and desire and gather everything in their vicinity, under the pretense of “I deserve.” Money is used as a means of dehumanizing and codifying many social interactions, and is a political pawn which is used to cultivate more money. I remember as a child my mother would pretend to scan me at the super market, and ask me how much I thought I was worth, as a person. Of course, being a child, I said, “nothing,” because, as I believed then, and I believe now, a human life cannot be quantified, especially not monetarily.

the best author of all time: ford madox

We got lucky getting on the 1 to Bastille, finding a cluster of open seats -- exactly how many seats as there were of us. At the next stop a group of young teenage boys, and one girl, already quite drunk, got on the car. They running in circles around the pole at the center of the car, playing a scaled-down game of tag. One tripped and hit his chin on the chair in front of him. I laughed, more loudly than I had intended to, and he laughed too. Then we all started laughing, and the already high spirit became  even more buoyant. He approached me, with his girlfriend, and said to me, "cette femme ici est la plus belle femme du monde." I nodded, because was certainly nice to hear him say that, and he repeated it again, "elle est la plus belle femme du monde! J'ai raison!" I smiled and said, "j'en suis sûr." He passed us, and began playing on the pole to our left. Another boy came up to me, and said, "est-ce que tu connais l'hyperbolisme?" but not understanding what the context of his saying this was, I thought he had said something along the lines of, "l'hyper Belize," ou n'importe quoi. I asked him to repeat, repète, un fois plus, until he explained to me that, "l'hyperbolisme c'est quand on dit quelque chose pas vrai, un exagération du coup." I understood! It doesn't quite translate, no pun intended, however this anecdote is oddly pertinent this week's prompt.

A friend of mine once told me that I should be weary of anything that seemed great, another friend told me not to be fooled by beauty, another told me that perfection is an illusion, and Sami the security guard says that nothing is special because of what it looks like, but what it does. These have been some of the most valuable lessons I have learned.

The Ford Madox writings were very evidently plein d'hyperbolisme, as is Paris. Often I walk around looking for them, especially now, with fashion mongers rampant in the streets, do I find myself laughing at the hyperbolisme that is real, not just a literary device.

Paris is a confusing city -- one which has and continues to defend itself from invasion, and only now has it become slightly less xenophobic and exclusive, however it still retains some of its pride. I do not know whether this quality in the French is deplorable or admirable, because it is both regressive and rude while being dignified and self confident, the ladder of which I think are qualities that everyone and everything should be, though the French tend to get criticized for this, possibly because they have few things to criticize. 

Lately I have been having tons of fun, though within this expatriate community. What Madox says about the band of expatriates in Paris, and about how Paris will always only be real to the Parisians, strikes a cord of recognition in me. I wonder if this is because I have not made an effort to integrate myself, or if, because, I have not been accepted by the French people and this is not apparent to me because I have been so discreetly rejected that I am not even aware of it, just as I was so discretely fooled by Madox's descriptions that I was not aware I was being fooled. I think this is my biggest fear, but I also think I know most times in my gut when I am being blindsided, or at least I hope.

This is a short post, and I will most likely add more to it as more comes to me. I have not been sleeping too well, for a multiplicity of reasons. I have been craving a restaurant sit-down meal and I have not been able to because of monetary constraints. I feel that I should dine in at least one restaurant before I leave Paris. I have a long time until then, though time goes by faster than I realize.

The extent of Madox's writing style is likely much further reaching than he intends, or potentially it goes exactly as far as he intends. I cannot know, because I feel as though I cannot know Madox's mind. The mystery and misleading nature of his art is ultimately what makes me appreciate and distain it. I am abstracted from it, and by it, and with it, and to it, or maybe I am just tired. 

Parc Monceau

Writing this post has been somewhat difficult because I did not have any epiphanies while walking around Parc Monceau, and consequentially (rather apparently) nothing to write about. I feel that I have not, recently, thought about anything of value. While on the train to Parc Monceau I put in my headphones and tuned out the world.

I've been feeling increasingly detached in Paris, which was, at one point, a utopian city in my mind. This is not to say that Paris is the problem, though, but me. I have stopped walking aimlessly though the city, both from exhaustion but mostly because of this pervasive loneliness I feel creeping into my life. Every relationship brings me further from companionship, every romantic fling brings me further from love. I cannot afford the high prices of coffee and alcohol in the brasseries. The only true luxury I allow myself is the box of cigarettes I buy at the beginning of the week, which has, in recent weeks, become two.

Upon arriving at Parc Monceau, I noticed myself comparing it to Washington Square Park. Kids from the school nearby were on their lunch break, and the park was flooded with them - greeting friends, moving around, talking, playing. How fortunate are they, as children, to be ignorant, and how ironic it is that once they grow to understand and appreciate youth, they will have spent it.

I walked past a man standing against a tree. He stared off into space and as I passed I could feel him watching me though his peripheral vision. I tried not to effect his reverie, and in passing him again later, I noticed he looked a bit disturbed. I sat down in a field later, and the sun rose just to warm the ground I was sitting on. The grass was lit just in a way that reminded me of the beauty of nature, the beauty that reminds me of the ephemerality of everything.

Where life is compared to a walk, the born saunterer Thoreau talks of, who can spend his life in a perpetual pilgrimage, is the man apt to live his life like a walk, where the final destination is inevitable, but its location in time and space is yet to be revealed to him. I talked about this a lot last semester in New York, with people who shared the same pathos for wandering as I. Vis ta vie, elle est courte, aujourd'hui peut être la dernièr, etc., mais je me demande pourquoi je ne suis pas morte encore. 

Je suis quittée de Parc Morceau autour du metro Villiers, et je suis revenue chez moi. J'ai commencé d'écrire ce post, mais je ne pouvais rien écrire. J'ai mangé un sandwich et j'ai fumé une cigarette sur ma balcon.