As if by necromancy or some occult adherence to kabbalistic signs, I am pulled through the same Parisian streets that I aways walk. They are the streets I knew and lived in years ago. It is as if a forced walking cure obliges me to confront the past every couple of years through the new filter that a couple more years of life gives me; each time a new distance to what held me in thrall years ago. In Paris, something to do with the culture there, every one is held in thrall. One day I will attain emancipation.
This time I am staying in ‘jourdain’ which is astride the 19th and 20th arrondissements. It is on a hill and is a kind of Montmartre without the tourists or the kitsch. ‘She’s cake’; purveyor of, yes, cheesecake. Now,though, I tread through the customary axes, take coffee in my customary cafes and pop into my customary shops and parks, intent on exorcism. They should give me an encroachment order for the rue vieille du temple or put an electric bracelet on my ankle so that i am electrocuted every time I step over the threshold of the’pick-clops’bar. It might also delay the onset of Alzheimers.