I sent a reply to the job posting as soon as I found it in my email. Will I receive so much as an answer? I don’t know. Jobs and I form an odd couple in which the misses happen more often than the scores.
Meanwhile, reading, writing, people. The poetry section of my bookshelves is heavily skewed toward Russian poets of the twentieth century. My favorite French translations being those of André Markowicz. Did I ever think I’d chance across a Facebook page on which he describes the process the Russian original undergoes during its reincarnation in French?
The mix, on any given day. The smashed bottles out on the esplanade, for instance. The usual pattern suggests a moment of disgust and anger aimed at the bottle for no longer yielding up rotgut rum, vodka or pastis. A bottle hurled, in other words, and smashed in fairly large pieces.
This morning? There was a carpet of finely ground glass near the bench most night drinkers use as the spot from which to consider the world and all its ills. The asphalt glittered and so did the fine layer of frost encasing the parked cars. In order to achieve such a fine grain of glass out of one bottle 1) someone had enough money for a large container instead of the usual halvers and 2)the someone went to a lot of trouble to pound the bottle down in the cold night.
Apart from which, in my living room yesterday afternoon, two young men sat through the reading of an eight-page legal document. They followed along and left with their personal copy. If nothing wonderful comes out of their court hearing on Friday, at least they’ll own a document that says an important someone in the French hierarchy not only agreed things weren’t done right by them, but found all the words to make the matter as clear as day to any judge who wishes to examine the matter as an appellate court judge should.
The day. Reading. Writing. People.