After two weeks of intense work, I find myself watching television and surfing the internet on this Friday afternoon. It’s a little vacation before an intense flurry of social events in the following week. Not only is an old friend coming to visit, I have my aunt and cousin coming from Tuesday onwards, plus a wedding this weekend. It’s a rage of social activity, which will surely be coupled with the happy partying that accompanies La Rentrée. I’m unusually buoyant, even if Alison is leaving soon and it will be hard to say goodbye to yet another person from the Northwestern grad program that I have become good friends with.

But, more than anything, I’m terribly hungover. After the last shot was called, we all burst into applause, some into tears, and hugs and kisses were exchanged. Then came the opening of many many bottles of bubbly. The night went on and on and I got home drunk enough not to remember opening my computer or any attachments. So it was not really a good present to wake up and find some very unflattering pictures, sent by Raphael, sitting on my desktop. Ah well. That’ll teach me to dress like a drama teacher from the seventies!

The whole crew was a joy to work with and I will really miss them. Big shout out to Florent, Fanny, Manue, Aurelie and of course, my partner at the castle, Julien. Gros bisous à vous tous. Now back to books, movies, Scrabble and Facebook for the afternoon!

I talked to M last night, one of the few warm nights of this chilly summer. She said "sometimes it just dies. You get so tired of struggling and trying to figure it out and it dies." Looking at the neon signs around me, and the honking traffic, there seemed to be no escape. The ugly curled thing blowing around the ground was the withered remainder of what must have once been a beautiful thing. Time is on the side of those who can love because love is tolerating the weariness of time.

And then I listened to Snowbird, over and over again, as I yearned to fly away, to find a place safe and bright, to take away the snows from my heart, and to remind me of the promise of young new green after the cold.

                     William Shakespeare - Sonnet CXVI

Check out the rest of the Conchords shit here. Thanks Brad.

Nina Berman’s series on Gulf War veterans is not that aesthetically striking at first glance. The style is reminiscent of any number of editorial photographers. The exception, though, is this photo, a studio portrait of a young newlywed couple. His face was burned off and reconstructed from bits of plastic and skin, with holes for eyes and nose. I have to say this is probably one of the most striking photos I have seen in a long time, one that is both horrifying, oddly funny, and deeply sad. Not for the faint of heart.

Sometimes, if I’m not thinking too much, I can hear myself laughing at things outside. It’s a distant sound, like water falling somewhere behind the leaves.

Today, the rain fell briefly but hard. I came back to the darkened table feeling morose, after watching the wind have its way with the thin top branches of the big tree. Julien took one look at my face and blurted out something ridiculous. Like everything else important, I forgot what he said. But it was funny, it made me laugh, and I saw my reflection in the black screen. Buck teeth outwards, eyes scrinched up in glee. Nice to see you old friend.

Quicksilver are these flashes of moods, from swirling clouds to brilliant setting sun. Aurelie cut my hair in the parking lot as we chatted amiably about how nice it was to just sit at a favourite cafe with a cool beer. Afterwards, when everything was golden, I came back to the spot, the chair now removed. Bits of my hair were lost in the wind while some lay in the puddle.

Later on, my husband said this line in the film: "No I am divorced. It’s not bad. I installed high-speed internet and she met a guy online. He’s really great." She was beautiful, the actress. Dark of eye and hair, with a pouty mouth and a quietness that leaves men dreaming. I like this girl, we get along well, and the scene was moving.

Today I met this guy who said he had no vices. No vices? Nope. He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t swear, didn’t lie, woke up early, and was calm and zen as fuck. I asked him if he could think of anything he could consider to be a fault. He thought for a while.

In the meantime, a rather buxom blond teenager was railing about her age and zodiac sign, smoking up a storm and chatting up anyone within a five metre radius. As she was going on and on and on he said "I think I might have found a vice. I never change my mind once it is made up. Once I decide on something, or on someone, I can never be persuaded otherwise."

Nobody was listening to him of course, except that I caught his comment out of the large chitter chatter. His line reminded me of Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice, and I was about to say so but didn’t. In any case, he certainly stood no chance against that Lydia. 

Sometimes you can imagine it has gone away, the way a cold can leave and have you forgetting that your body is a fragile thing. But then it comes back. It hits you full force, making you swallow air with pain, biting your lower lip, and closing your eyes. A terrible surge of emptiness, somehow rendering all metaphors insufficient, storms through you. You wonder how the light can make anyone happy, or that six billion people can exist in this world without the sound of their misery drowning out the music.

I have heard people say that music, work, food, all of these things help. At the risk of sounding pathetic, I find my solace in drugs and alcohol. In people too, but that feels cannibalistic. Somehow shouldn’t my friends only profit from my good humour, and not suffer from the recounting of an agony they cannot feel? 

Every book I read only reminds me of what is not, and what terrible consequences lie for those who are unlucky enough not to win the "I love you - You love me" lottery. Does that even make any sense? Damned is my soul for wanting more. I’m sure if I was as strong or as witty as I have been fooled to believe in impaired moments, I would not fall into the sullen-jawed trap.

Damn. Fuck this whining. And fuck this shit. See you where the silver arrow falls.

I’m in Berlin, again. This time to swim in nearby lakes, make heavy rounds of the bars, and see some buds. Perhaps a little trip to Poland included. Have started reading some Alice Munro, which is long overdue, and will finish the damn Potter book on the train tonight. This isn’t really a post of anything interesting, no heavy insights.

Except…I wonder if people will start feeling all cuddly about rats in general, after all this Ratatouille business. I mean, I can’t wait for the day that some little girl in the metro says "Oh mummy! Look! Remy is sleeping on the third rail! Can we give him some oregano?"