Food happened somewhere after nine pm last night after a most volubile General Assembly. Not that the folks at Volubilo are more talkative than others. Words tend to flow before, during and after meetings here.
This morning, the dog wanted out at five thirty am. I relented at five forty. Climbed into my house clothes (paint-spattered work pants and T). While I did so, a singer by the name of Frida Boccara broke into her rendition of one of her hits from the seventies. In my head, that is. Minus the soaring strings, I sang along: “Il y aura cent mille chansons quand viendra le temps des cent mille saisons…” etc. Upstairs, near the exit to the great outdoors, the dog moaned along. At any hour of the day or night, surrealism may strike. Best enjoy it while you can.
A bit of rain fell overnight. Under the street lamps, the white blooms on the black locust trees twinkled with wee drops and the parked cars looked like a wedding party covered with confetti (none of the parked cars had smashed windows and none were charred heaps – things are quiet on place du château at the moment. Or were, have been, or had been, whichever verb tense now applies.)
Numbers. Vast subject. Spent a good part of yesterday afternoon drilling school kids in the nine times seven and six times eight routines. Followed by the General Assembly of a collective forever teetering on the brink of bankruptcy. We’ll keep my personal finances out of this. This is no time of day to discuss issues such as minimum living allowances or minimum wages or any other minima whatsoever. Suffice it to say I’m not alone in the contingent of precarious livers. Maybe all the talk is a way to vent anxiety. I saw a photo of young people demonstrating under the banner Génération Précaire, and felt a strong urge to invite them to make that a plural. But I had other things to do, such as drilling school kids in seven times nine being the same as nine times seven.
No wonder then that I reconnected with Joyce Cary’s Gulley Jimson for a few minutes last night. Gulley’s just stolen a few tubes of paint to pursue his latest artwork, and packed newspapers into his shoes and trousers so as not to freeze while devising a paintbrush out of a bit of rope. He’s now attempting to discourage a little kid from becoming an artist. But the kid’s persistent. I’ve read The Horse’s Mouth several times already so here’s a spoiler: the kid sticks around throughout the story.
Which brings me, the long way around, back to my ongoing draft revision.