1st Arrondissement, Paris
Marie, her friend Paco, and his friend Tabby and I spent the afternoon in Monmarte visiting Sacre Coeur and an exhibition at Halle Saint-Pierre of the French artist, Chomo. Afterward we had another four hour dinner at a bistro in the Belleville neighborhood as it was Tabby's birthday. I love the fact that the French can make a day out of eating. But something went awry on the way home. Maybe it was the oysters or the snails that started the dinner off? Or maybe it was because I didn't have a digestive? Or maybe it was the crazy guy with dreadlocks screaming at me in the Metro following me down the platform as Marie yelled my name trying to keep me from doing anything stupid? Whatever is was, by the time we got home I knew that I was going be sick. And as I sat in the bathtub I started feeling not just sick to my stomach, but sick to my soul about all the writing I've been doing since we've been here, as it's all disgustingly personal and often difficult to sift through, and follows me throughout the day - even on a nice day like this one was - as I try to capture in my mind the ever elusive nature and meaning of what it is that I'm writing. And as I sat in the tub and the sickness swelled in me I suddenly felt intensely vulnerable and exposed by what I've written and I wondered what the point of it all was - putting myself 'out there' like that - and I thought about stopping the writing all together. Then my body shivered and I vomited all over myself. And I felt immensely better. And I realized then, that that was why I would keep on writing - as even though in the end I may be covered in the revolting stench of my own psychic vomit, I'll feel a whole lot better for having gotten it all out.