Maybe – just maybe – some contemporary French writers I’ll want to read?
The médiathèque didn’t have a single one of the titles I was looking for yesterday. I came home with Lydie Salvayre’s BW – through which I discover les Editions Verticales and writers alluded to above – and a series of short texts by Günter Grass, Mon siècle.
In its present state, the draft is a mess. The only saving grace: no longer do cut and paste refer to physical actions during which a draft became an even more illegible thing.
I am sick and tired of this town – the real one. Have visions of walking off with the dog and never coming back. All such impulses will have to get channelled off to characters. But honestly: the cinema, yesterday afternoon? Grannies baby-sitting their children’s offspring, while their offspring were off enjoying Barcelona or the Sierra Nevada or Machu Pichu prior to the opening of a McBurger outlet near the sacrificial stone. I don’t have a single offspring to consider these days and here I am anyway. I perform useful functions, such as advising the projectionist when the Chilean animation film keeps bugging and the grannies click their dentures in annoyance. They thank me (the projectionist and the grannies). Chalk up another for Lucie and her good deeds.
A fine moment, a bit after two am: the night was so balmy I left the doors out to the balcony open. Awoke to the Big Dipper perfectly framed in my line of sight. From which I gather my bedroom looks out due North. Look, you take your fine moments where you find them.
Allez? Of course. Considering the mess I’ve made of the draft, somebody‘s got to fix it.