30 years of London, Paris and The Venus Trilogy
At the Eiffel Tower in June 1995. I lie on a narrow twin bed in a Paris hotel. Through the open window, there are indistinct voices, the low rumble of cars, distant sirens. Bjork’s kinetic “Hyperballad” wafts in from another room. It is summer in the 11th arrondissement near Place de la République. Across from me, on his own bed, a beautiful boy reaches out his hand, inviting me to join him. It is 1995, I’m 24 and my life is about to irrevocably change. Behind me was America and its smothering morality, a string of shitty boyfriends, a file cabinet full of abandoned novels, short stories and poems. There was something about being abroad, out of comfort zones, six hours ahead of what I would soon realize was my “former life,” that liberated my voice and sexuality. For years, I had read about writers and artists moving to Paris to explore their creativity and find a simpatico community. There was something about the air, light, and energy that seemed to infuse these expatriates with insp...
