The short narrow window had been creaking back and forth gently in the breeze for 2 years, patiently waiting for one of the right disposition or need to take a peek. Summer had passed, the nights grew longer and a brisk chill was in the air. Alone and shivering I wedged myself up into the window frame, peering into a toilette abandonné. My fingers drew deep trenches through the dust and climbing down onto the cistern, then the porcelain itself it was clear none had passed through in quite some time. By the shafts of streetlight I could see no footprints but my own. If any were coming in and out they were using the doors. However they were all locked, I'd checked them first. The house was quiet and still, nothing was stirring, moving, breathing.

I moved slowly and breathed silently, expecting an encounter at every turn. While my eyes adjusted to the gloom I ran my fingers along the walls, feeling the old textured wallpaper peeling and crumbling away into dust. I stepped over the dried crunchy leaves which had blown in through the window and progressed into a space between a large empty room to the left, the front door and staircase to the right. Old lino tiles dried and turning up at the edges crinkled softly beneath my feet and old posters sagged from the walls. It was bare and dusty, deserted. Trees swaying in the wind outside cast shifting shadows through the mottled glass illuminating the old wooden stairs in a golden yellow hue. If anyone was living here, they'd surely be upstairs. With long slow deliberate steps I crept up.

In a large room at the top of the stairs light streamed in via three floor to ceiling windows facing out over a small park. The room was empty except for a faint whiff of dampness. One corner of the ceiling was slightly discoloured, water damaged. To the right I found a small bathroom with paint flaking from the walls and ceiling, a decay fetishists bread and butter. With a cough and splutter dirty thick brown water oozed from the tap. I hit the lights and to my surprise the room lit up revealing a bathtub, basin and toilet. I snapped the lightswitch down quickly. This quaint little house was offering up many surprises - water, power and even a bath. A rare luxury.



In the adjacent room old curtains lay strewn across the carpet and a single chair sat facing out one of the windows. Textured wallpaper wrapped the room but it wasn't peeling or flaking, just discoloured and mottled. This room was the nicest of all with two large windows overlooking the dead parisian streets. I lay on the floor in the middle of the room, listening to the occasional snippet of conversation passing by or the occasional car. This little gem of a house lay empty and waiting, offering power, water, shelter and convenience at the modest expense of security, mold and luxury. I couldn't believe this gorgeous little house could lie unloved for so long. It deserved better than neglect. I moved in shortly after.



Qx and I picked the front door lock from the inside, with a bit of help switching the barrel at 3am for a high security model. With the new lock in, the Toothfairy, Dirge and I slept the first frigid night in my new place, TF and I curled up on the floor with nothing but body heat and a hoodie to keep us warm. By 4am, huddled together shivering it was pretty well clear priority number one was heaters and a bed. Those first nights were uneasy and I dozed uneasily awaiting the sounds of someone coming to take the house. Despite locking the small downstairs window I knew how easily one would enter the building with one swift kick, the only consoling thought was that none but I had bothered. Perhaps qx knew what I was thinking for one day he returned from china town bearing a most righteous gift: nunchucks.



In quite a short period of time Le Squat evolved from sparse to hobo-deluxe. Late at night I'd wander the deserted streets, purloining whatever furniture I could from the haphazard piles of streetside collection, hauling it back and hustling it through the front door while the neighbourhood slept. With time we amassed: a double bed, a sofabed, a clickclack, a plush arm chair, a few lamps, a small desk, a large desk, stove, fridge, microwave, small oven, bookshelf, clothes racks, a large rug, a couple of mounted canvasy metro photos and three electric heaters. With furniture, electricity, free wifi and (cold) running water the quaint little house very quickly became a home. Of all the places I've lived fact it's the most interesting and most memorable. Qx discovered the house was owned by the city, presumably their motivation to clean it up and either sell or rent it was non-existent. Suited me fine, I hoped nobody would turn up with a delivery truck and wonder why the locks had changed.

Like any abode of questionable legitimacy le Squat had some quirks. The broken hot water system was sorely missed and despite there being a couple of decent open networks nearby internet was often flaky. Coming and going was a nervous affair, with standard operating procedure being to check for suspicious characters front, back and sides, pause a moment to listen at the door then stroll on out like we owned the place. The large local hobo population, while too lazy to have attempted the window would likely roll in the front door given the chance. Sympathy was hard to give, for two years they'd been living within sight of the open window which would have led them to shelter and relative warmth. Such is life as they say. I had my home, one they chose not to claim for themselves.





Squatting was a desire born in reading Predator's accounts back in the day and staying with Bob and Green's trainyard squat. It was a life experience happily realised. That little bit of uncertainty in everyday life that I might return home to find my things cast into the street, pawed over and looted by the homeless, was exciting. Trusting my lodgings and my possessions to the chaotic whims of the universe was scary at first but over the past 3 years I've realised I need little more than a laptop and a camera (or three...) so the chance once taken lacked the intimidation I had expected. Greater was my concern for TF, who often slept there alone while our band of vagabonds ventured into the metro tunnels below paris dodging trains and seeking adventure.



I've seen, amongst serial trespassers, disdain for serial rent-evaders (figure that one out...) though frankly I don't care for an ethics debate or interrogation since clearly my stance on the above should be evident. Those seeking an argument are welcome to go fuck themselves and if their small minds require it can take smug satisfaction that one morning the city workers arrived, locksmith in tow, to evict me. I might not have lived there long but it truly was my home. Toothfairy's also, by the end she was staying there as much as I. I could have demanded a court order and made a stand, fought the man, kept le squat another month or so but in the end I knew I'd be booted and the city would take back what was rightfully theirs. Our run had saved me ~AUD7000 in rent and I saw no value in tainting the memories with a siege for a place to which I had no right. With our brand new 350eubuck drill we'd secured the place to better than when we arrived, the delicious irony there should be evident. As I watched the city locksmith remove our cylinder and insert his own I felt more than just a twinge of sadness.



Ten minutes later shouldering as many of my worldly possessions as possible, sacrificing the rest to the squatter gods, I marched out the front door of the little house I held so dear to return to the BHV Institute of Professional Cataphilia. As I walked past the hobos one looked up from the depths of his wine bottle, stared me in the eyes and shrugged his shoulders once as if to say "bad luck kid". He was mistaken for I would've done worse had I lacked the courage to climb through that little window, take a chance and move in. That day was merely the closure of a great life experience and a period of time I'll always remember fondly. Le Squat was taken but the memories will always live on for those who stayed there. One day, if I ever have the money I'll return to Paris, buy that little house and then truly it will be ours. -dsankt, 2009