September 12, 2018 (Paris)

September 12, 2018 (Paris)

The jet-lag is better, but not completely gone.  Still, it's a considerable effort to wake up in the morning, where it's morning.  Everything in my body tells me to stay in bed, but then I get nagging anger at myself for allowing more bedtime when I should be out and about to enjoy the magnificent city that is Paris.   For me, the pure enjoyment of this city is due to walks.  We arranged to see our friend Dennis at the used bookstore/cafe "Merci" on bd Beaumarchais.  For one, the cafe is just around the corner from our residence, and therefore no excuse to be late for such a meeting.  We did get there on time, which was 2 PM.   Dennis had bread that is called bouche, and its served with butter and jam.  I had a cappuccino and Lun*na had a cold drink of some sort.   

Dennis is a friend from Los Angeles, and I have known him for years.  A brilliant writer, he's now making films and for the past ten years doing theater pieces as well.   For me, he's the classic example of the American who goes to Paris and everything becomes great for him and his art.  I have to presume that the road to this greatness is a bumpy one, but he wears it well, and he's genuinely one of the few people that I much admire.  In other words, he's everything that I'm not.  For instance, I'm sluggish, and I'm trying to tell the difference between my waking and dream life.  Since I  have been in Paris, I have been having these odd dreams of being at work (which is weird enough, because I don't go to work) nude.  Everyone is dressed, but I try to act normal like it's OK for me to be at my occupation and space and to be in the nude.   I feel in the dream that I know this is wrong, but if I act like it is not wrong, then the problem or feelings will go away.   I then wake-up in the middle of the night, thinking "why do I have dreams like that?"   This, of course, keeps me up for numerous hours and then depressing comes over me, because I fear it will ruin the rest of the day, and my day is here in Paris.

After the coffee break, I take Dennis over to the Frank Elbaz Gallery to see my dad, Wallace Berman's artwork.   Frank was there, and he showed me a work by Wallace which I haven't seen in years.   It's a strange phenomenon to see a work by your father that you have no connection with, yet, it's very much part of one's DNA.  The narration is that artworks get sold, and they go out into the world.  The collector or buyer may have it for a few years or forever, but mostly they did get re-sold and moved somewhere else in the world.   So, to locate artworks is sometimes a detective story.   The thing is, as a member of the family, I have no control over how these pieces move from one owner to another.  It's an odd feeling to be associated with a work, just due to family, and come upon something that is almost new to one.  It is a rock sculpture by my dad, with Hebrew writing and it's one of the rock pieces that has a metal chain attached to the rock.   A beautiful piece.  I remember seeing it as a kid.  Beyond that, I don't know what happened after my dad originally sold the piece. 

We walked Dennis to the metro.  Then we decided to go to a supermarket, Carrefour Market (88 Rue Amelot 75011 Paris), and buy food for lunch.  I purchased a cheese sandwich which was tasty and straightforward, and Lun*na purchased a vegetable wrap.  For me, to go to a neighborhood food market is a delight. Especially a foreign (to me) food place.  I'm easily amused to wander around the potato chip section of the store.  We got back home with our lunch, and after we ate it, we had to figure out how to use the laundry machine, that is also a dryer.   A rocket scientist could figure this out, but sadly I failed every science class in Junior and High School, and therefore I wasn't much help.  But we did find a YouTube post regarding how to use this type of washing machine.   If nothing else, YouTube is great for instructional videos.

It's now around 6:30 PM, and usually, this would be our happy hour at home (Los Angeles), but we decided to go out and walk around Paris.  We strolled down Bd des Filles du Calvaire to Bd Beaumarchais.   On this Bouvard is a series of motorcycle shops.   When I look at these machines, I think of them as being fetish objects.  Every type of machinery in France or in Paris looks like a highly aesthetic object. The same goes for the buildings or architecture.  I'm not used to being in a city that has such high visual standards.    We eventually reached Place de la Bastille.  I get goosebumps by going to this location because Marquis de Sade was in prison here.  Of course, the prison structure doesn't exist anymore due to its destruction during the French Revolution.  Still, to think such a great man as Sade being in the same location as I.  I shudder in delight.   

Lun*na and I then went onwards to Bd Henry IV where we ended up at Pont Sully.  We looked over the Seine River and wondered what it would be like to jump into the waters.  It's odd that we think of suicidal thoughts on a holiday, but there you go!  The highlight of this street is a statue of Arthur Rimbaud, the great poet.  It's a new statue, meaning something made this century.  The bronze statue is located on the Place du Père-Teilhard-de-Chardin, on the right of boulevard Henri IV, and is the work of Jean-Robert Ipoustéguy (1920-2006).  The work is called L'homme aux semelles devant (à Rimbaud) (Man with soles in front, to Rimbaud).   

Walking down a street and to come upon the memories of Rimbaud and Sade, can only happen in Paris.  - Tosh Berman