In school I thrived on French. It enabled me to read Artaud and the Symbolists and the Surrealists and the Dadaists directly. My attempts at conversat...on helped soften the innate rudeness. The Parisians appreciated my struggle.Days we spent being tourists. Nights I searched for the Avant Garde. Mother accompanied me occasionally, but the long walks and the abundance of things to see, art and fashion and architecture during the day more often tired her out. For me, Paris flowing through my. “Well, yes. I have. I'm not dead.”“Ever acted on it? Remember, we have to answer truthfully but never tell.”Biting my lower lip, my mind was spinning about how to answer, but instead, I heard myself groan, “A few times, yes...”“Has a black man ever seen you naked? Or have you been too chicken?”“No, one hasn't, but not because I'm chicken.”“Well, I know you aren’t a bigot, so why haven’t you?”I had no answer. I had admitted I had cheated. The booze and weed made the normal function of my brain. More

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