Sundae Girl: sex

I'd like this to be a photo essay, but there were some things I could not, alas, hold a camera to. Most notably was the vision of the first sunrise of 2015 over the suburbs entering Paris from Charles de Gaulle airport. I'd planned it just so, wishing to strike an auspicious entry into the year by way of the city now designated as my writing sabbatical.

Likewise, I couldn't capture any part of my visit to the Museé d'Orsay on Sunday, January 11th, the day when most Parisians, expats, and dignitaries were convening at République to march in support of the victims of the Charlie Hebdo massacre the previous Wednesday, January 7th, which happened while I was on the metro from the 20th arrondissement where I was staying to Rue Saint Germaine-de-prés, at the NYU Paris building. It was after our fiction group, led by Aleksandar Hemon, discussed a new short story of mine when Deborah Landau delivered the terrible news of the shootings. Shortly thereafter, Hemon gave his planned lecture on empathy, and how we are all wired to read works searching for our opportunity to exercise empathy, and how that is often not enough, or that our desire to feel empathy often clouds what is present before us. Or something. As he spoke, I made connections of my own, thinking mostly of my story and how I had effectively bullied the reader into feeling empathy rather than inviting it. Mostly, I thought of how the shootings could trigger a right-wing response of Islamaphobia within France and the rest of the world. How the shooters themselves could be considered empathetic when, in the process of carjacking, allowed an old man to reach back in for his beloved dog.

I watched the inspiring march on a T.V. in a near-empty cafe on the empty street of L'Université near the Md'O, deciding to absorb the art and enjoy my free access to it, rather than join a mob, an entity I tend to distrust on principle. I then took the train up to Bastille for a soireé at a classmates' apartment and captured some photos and footage of residual celebration. There were smiles, song, art, and passion. The French know how to protest.

Once my residency ended, I went to Prague and had adventures, many of which were not captured on camera.

Of what I did document, the sense of place, temperature, and inextricably my own emotional turmoil, I reveal here:

20th Arrondissement

Notre Dame

A beautiful Parisienne who caught me.

Looking for a drink in the Latin Quarter

Travel foibles

Turbulence and turmoil

Homesick

This woman collected bread from bakeries at the end of the night and brought it to this squat for hungry people to come by and grab.

Une femme faim

Tough to see the artwork, an animated pen drawing of characters performing various antics in an urban labyrinth of rooftops and stairways. You grasped the joystick to move the binocular view around the image, pushing different buttons to produce noise or a blood splatter pattern across the screen.