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needles needling needlessly with little thread... or much of anything else...

(foolish dribbles to be written at uncertain times, on an irregular basis, from uncertain sections of the ever expending universe, and from whatever dimension I-We-Us-Them might find ourselves/ myself in …)

Friday, July 29, 2005

NOODLES 



The action in this photograph is not taking place in Austin, Texas.

NOODLE EATING & SLURPING LIVE FROM PARIS, FRANCE where I'm unfortunately not since I'm currently living in the capital of the Lone Star State slaving away in a liquor store.

(My friends say hello... HELLO back... hope I can make it across the big pound sooner than later.)

Thursday, July 28, 2005

MIXED UP DREAM WITH NO HEAD OR TALE 


Having a bit of a non-inspired last few days. Read the story *BD* 11 1 86 by Joyce Carol Oates in the Fiction issue 2005 of The Atlantic monthly magazine, and it’s been giving me nightmares. At first, it starts out banal enough, drab realism, taking place in a high school – as far as I’m concerned, teenagers are ugly vindictive little shits with pimples, and I talk from personal experience from both ends of the stick – but then the story slowly changes, becomes strange, the suspense builds, while you’re thinking, OK, this is obvious... (can’t say anymore)...

I can’t remember my dreams from last night, or rather from earlier this morning, it’s been too long since I’ve gotten out of bed. I was living through some weird shit when I woke up early this morning, then I closed my eyes back up out of laziness, not wanting to get out of bed, and went back to uninspired sleepless sleep, during which I forgot the earlier dreams. All I remember is that I was living through the last episode of a television series, and they were showing all the big moments of the series. The series had been about a regular city bus that takes its route everyday from one end of the city to the other, and all the people it picks up. Every episode, then, takes place in the bus, starting whenever the driver puts on his driver’s hat, turns the ignition on, and starts off before the day has even started. Everyday, he picks up the regulars, as well as all kinds of other people, and the episode is about that, what happens in the bus, what people talk about, the meeting of strangers, accidental meetings, the regulars who become friends or weird acquaintances by seeing each other everyday. We also go into the lives of each bus rider, their personal stories, et cetera. Of course, this being my dream, some of the special moments were for example close-ups on one guy swallowing something horrible, swelling his throat several times over - we could see it go down his throat while he sat at the diner table - which then made him throw up and die a terrible death, all of this in close-up, but not only this... there was also an eighty year old Chaplin character who would everyday at his bus-stop let everybody get in before he did – the driver was in on this – and would let the bus slowly start up again before running after the bus, grabbing a hold of the back, climbing on, and making his way to the back door – I don’t even know if public busses in Austin have back doors? Like they do in Paris? – and letting himself in. He had been a secret agent for Scotland Yard in his younger days. All along, the other passengers saying stuff like, “and you know, he’s past eighty years of age,” “Wow, that’s amazing, how he does such thing...” All along the old man giving us a Chaplinesque show, except one day he slips, lets go of the handle-bars and dies... his ghost jumps out looking exactly like Chaplin with the hat and the cane, running along side the bus saying goodbye to the other passengers, before being picked up by a flying ghost car and flying / disappearing away. Various images are coming back to me. The plot isn’t, though... there was a plot as well, which I can’t remember. I was somehow involved, watching it on a big screen, sitting on a couch which was really modern art and not meant to be sat upon, but I did anyway because I didn’t see the logic of having a couch in front a large screen television, one you are currently watching with some other people, and not being able to sit on said couch. It felt ridiculous to me. All the other people were sitting on the floor being mad at me for being so disrespectful.

(Last night, I was drinking Dubonnet red. Then I switched to cheap Lone Star beers in long neck bottles. I also ate a raw steak of salmon fish, to see what it would be like. I loved it. I eat sushi all the time, and I was wondering if it wouldn’t be more financially interesting to simply buy a large piece of salmon, rather than buying a bunch of tiny pieces wrapped in rice and seaweed paper. But like the sushi chef was telling me the other day, certainly I could try, but the fish he used and the fish sold for cooking weren’t put through the same reglementary controls.)

Sunday, July 24, 2005

SUNDAY 


Jeune parents branché, artistes, pseudo artistes, et branleurs. That’s the kind of bar, the closest one to my house, where I’ve been having a couple of American pints this late afternoon. I specify the ‘American’ part of the pint because it is much smaller than an English pint. Every time I order a pint in an American bar, I feel as if I’m getting totally cheated, which I am.

Anyway... just trying to step out of the house. This morning, early, I went to the H.E.B. (local supermarket chain) and bought a styrofoam cooler, some sandwich food, and ice, then came back home to pick up my dog. We went to the lake, had a swim, some sandwiches, a snooze, another swim, and a small walk through the woods. Perfect. I should do this more often, and for different reasons. This morning, I woke up pissed off at my neighbors and decided to hit town so as not to have to see them today. Which kind of screwed things up because I would explode at no pre-announced time holding a monologue out loud to my non-present neighbors with an argument explaining my point of contention. I did, for several moments, achieve peace while forgetting my anger, and actually enjoyed the lake, my dog, the sandwich food, the laying on a towel on the grass sleeping... but the bursts of angry speeches spoken towards the trees and to the air came out every once in a while uncontrollably. I could barely keep myself from assaulting innocent lake-bystanders, from whom I stayed as far away as possible for everybody’s safety.

To keep me calm and descent, I was reading stories from The Neon Wilderness by Nelson Algren... a wonderful writer.

Friday, July 22, 2005

THE FIFTH BEER 


The fifth beer is when you realize you’re closing in real fast on the final chapter. Cracking that one, you promise yourself to sip it slowly and enjoy it. Which is fine because you’ve got a slight buzz going, and you might as well enjoy it, and take your time. The fifth beer is not only the beer of truth, but also the beer of denial. Even though the end is eminent, and you know it, you don’t yet have to face that fact. The fifth beer tastes almost as good as the first one. The end is near, but it’s not quite here yet. The sixth beer – when you’ve only purchased one six pack – is a funeral. The fifth beer is like an Indian summer, a second chance, a second wind which takes the cyclist up that last bit of that last hill. The fifth beer is a rediscovery, an appreciation of life as you know it, a temporary pill of good health, a slight burst of light. When the fifth beer is gone, you know it’s close to bed time, to falling asleep, to waking up, to going back to work. The fifth beer is heaven. Slightly buzzed, slightly stupider, slightly rosier around the cheeks feeling warm and excited, you drink the fifth beer with a je ne sait quoi happiness which lasts but a moment before denial takes place. The fifth beer is the answer to the universe, it is the answer to mortality. Once it’s gone, you’re that much closer to the end of the six pack. And once that’s gone, it’s gone and over with for ever. The fifth beer is eternal youth while being eternally closer to death. The fifth beer is the proof that life must be enjoyed.

Thursday, July 21, 2005

ALL IS GOOD IN LALA-LAND 


Okay... having a little bout of depression the other day. Sometimes, it’s hard to look beyond our small pathetic little problems. I’m actually busy right now applying to go back to school. It’s exciting. If all goes well, I should be taking one or two university classes this coming semester. Since I’ve been back to Texas, I’ve barely been out of my house, I’ve not met any new people other than work-related, and I’m starting to go stir crazy. Work, Work, Work... and no play, makes for a dull day... or however the saying goes. I’m also back on the house / land looking-to-buy mode. I’m leaning more towards ten or so acres of unrestricted land, so that I can plop a small mobile home on it, and then do whatever the hell I want to do (I’ve got some ideas.) Just to say, all is good in lala-land. Trying to stay focused et de ne pas perdre la boule.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

SOCIALISM VS CAPITALISM AT MY HUMBLE LEVEL 


A friend writes me a letter telling me she’s gotten married. I sit here not able to sleep, thinking about my pathetic little life working barely making ends meet not able to do anything else when all I want to do is get in my car and drive. Drive a long ways and stop somewhere where I’ve not ever stopped before. Who says I cannot? It’s been one year since I’ve been back in Texas from Paris, and what have I done... not much. I’ve paid rent, paid my taxes, paid the insurance companies, paid the electric bills and the gas bills, I’ve bought gasoline for my car, paid to change the oil, paid the interest on the car to the car dealer, I’ve been the dutiful son and have done all that was expected of me as a good citizen. I’ve worked hard, I’ve bought the books to learn to do my work even better, I’ve perceived no raise, no help, nothing. I’ve in one year done nothing but work and feed the machine, and yet today, I’m more than one thousand dollars in debt – which I wasn’t one year ago when I arrived – I have no savings, the chance of me owning property is little to none, and I see no light at the end of the tunnel. What’s better: not finding employment in France, being broke, but owing nothing, having some sort of security, aid if I need to go to the hospital... or being able to find work but making always just a little bit less than what’s needed to be ahead, having absolutely no job security, no medical aid, no security, but having the freedom to say I’ve had enough and I want to do something else, go somewhere else? I don’t know. Right now, I don’t know.

Monday, July 18, 2005

POINT OF NO RETURN 


SALOME (se levant)
Vous me donnerez tout ce que je demanderai, tétrarque?

HERODIAS
Ne dansez pas, ma fille.

HERODE
Tout, fût-ce la moitié de mon royaume.

SALOME
Vous le jurez, tétrarque ?

HERODE
Je le jure, Salomé.

HERODIAS
Ma fille, ne dansez pas.

SALOME
Sur quoi jurez-vous, tétrarque ?

HERODE
Sur ma vie, sur ma couronne, sur mes dieux. Tout ce que vous voudrez je vous le donnerai, fût-ce la moitié de mon royaume, si vous dansez pour moi. Oh ! Salomé, Salomé, dansez pour moi.

SALOME
Vous avez juré, tétrarque

HERODE
J’ai juré, Salomé.

SALOME
Tout ce que je vous demanderai, fût-ce la moitié de votre royaume ?

HERODIAS
Ne dansez pas, ma fille.

(from Salomé by Oscar Wilde)

Sunday, July 17, 2005

AFTER A SALT BATH 


A young woman comes into the store. She comes in every once in a while. She usually comes by alone. This time she’s accompanied by some beefy boyfriend.

“That whisky you suggested the other day, that was for him,” and she points to the beefy young man.

The other day, she came in and wanted a nice present for somebody who likes Scotch whiskies but doesn’t know much about them. She knows nothing about whisky at all, and cannot drink them. Even though I prefer the Islay’s, I suggested a highly rated Speyside from the Cragganmore distillery which is relatively affordable and a great drink.

“They loved it so much, the bottle was gone in less than three days.”
“Really,” I say, “when me and my buddies get to it, a bottle rarely survives one evening.”
“But wasn’t it the bottle you gave your dad for Christmas?”
“It sure was, and he loved it, and so do I. What about you?”
“Oh, I couldn’t drink it. That stuff is too strong for me.”
“Add a little mineral water, and it’ll go down beautifully.”
“I tried... couldn’t do that either.”
“What you need is a little white wine.”

She was looking at me with big eyes, while the boyfriend just looked beefy. This was yesterday and we were doing a wine tasting.

“How about a little chardonnay from the Willamette valley?”
“Okay...”

So I pour the girl and the boy each a glass of wine.

“You’ll love it. It never touches oak. It’s fermented and raised in steel. No wood anywhere, which is rare for a domestic chard. Which is one of the reasons I like the stuff.”

They drink.

“What do you think?”
“I-I don’t know nothing about wine,” says the boy.
“I like it,” says the girl.

They don’t buy a bottle. That’s okay, I’ll get her to buy one next time she comes by.

(No... there’s no punch line, though I agree with you, there should be. This is merely a few minutes in the working life of Francois, so you can see how boring my days can be, though they can last, as Saturday did, from 9h25 till 20h35 not counting to and fro driving time.)

She got mad at me a couple months ago when she came in with her underage sister, and I asked the young girl to wait outside.

“But so-and-so and such-and-such store always lets me in the store with my sister.”
“I’m sorry, please don’t take this personally, if you’re not her legal guardian, she can’t be in the store with you, it’s not personal, it’s not my decision, it’s not me who made up that law. But if I don’t make sure this law is abided to by my customers, and there’s a T.A.B.C. agent out there who decides to do something about it, then I'm the one who gets to go to jail, loose my job, pay an outrageous fine, and never get to work in the alcohol serving industry again... at least not in Texas.”

She walked out in a huff without buying anything, cursing me under her breath.

"Write a letter to your senator," I suggested as she walked out the door.

It took her several weeks to start coming into the store again, but she did, they always do, and she’s been all smiles since, never mentioning or making any reference to the incident at all. She listens to my advice, buys what I tell her to, within reason, and says please and thank you. Also, she's cute. If only they could all be like her.

Was thinking about this for some reason, after getting out of my bath. Was taking a long salt bath while listening to A Prairie Home Companion. Eventually I fell asleep, and woke up to some Cuban music. The water was lukewarm, Brutus was asleep next to the bath tub on the floor, the bottle of Argyle – the wine we did a tasting of yesterday – was half gone, and I needed a big glass of ice water. So I decided to take a cold to warm shower to wash the salt off, shampoo my hair, and get this Sunday afternoon going once and for all. Two hours in a bath tub is long enough for anybody by any standards.

Saturday, July 16, 2005

TRYING TO WAKE UP AND SMELL THE COFFEE 


Long day at work yesterday, and another one coming along today. Barely enough time this morning to chill out with a cup of coffee. Hard getting out of bed. Confused dreams. Was invited at this place by this woman, and I kept messing up. Like I got my foot caught in some string or something trying to make it to the bathroom while they – there were a few people present in the dream conversing in the living room area of wherever I was – and while trying to cut it, I completely entangled myself in it, only to realize that it was some fancy silk drape I was destroying. But the more I tried to unravel myself, the worse I destroyed everything around me and strung myself even more. It was like I was caught in a spider-web. The hostess was a woman probably about my age or just a few years older, who lived alone with her pre-teen daughter. I forgot most of the dream, but I was embarrassed throughout, so much so that I started waking up, and wanting to get the hell out of the dream, because I didn’t want to get caught totally destroying this person’s bedroom-bathroom. It was like a bad Three Stooges skit all bundled up together.

The good thing about today, is that I have to leave the store at eight tonight, I cannot stay till closing, because I am volunteering at the French Legation Museum where they are celebrating Bastille Day. From 21h00 on till closing, I will be in charge of selling raffle tickets. There will be food, drinks, and music. Should be fun, and anyway I need to go out, to do something other than stay at home and go to work.

Thursday, July 14, 2005

SAUGE, SEXTIDI, 26 MESSIDOR, AN 213 


(Today’s date.)

Messidor is the month (three months per season)
Sauge is the day (thirty days per month, each day of the year having its own name)
Sextidi means it’s the six day of the week (based on a ten day week)
26 is the twenty-six day of the month
We are in the 213th year.

More information on Le Calendrier Républicain here.
The names of the days and months: here (in French).

BRUTUS IS BACK! 


Brutus likes to:

Basically, he's a great dog, and I'm happy he's home.

Monday, July 11, 2005

BRUTUS AFTER EATING A ROTTING ANTELOPE’S LEG 




RUN 


I not only wrote but lived a short story last night during my dream, about which I apparently refused to talk about during a wild party on the fifth floor of a building in a city which might have been Paris, but probably not. My dog was with me, which is a good sign, being that he’s still at the clinic – doing much better since yesterday, cleaning himself, wagging his tail, sitting up when you visit him – and there were other dogs, and lots of cats too. It’s all quite complicated and blurry. At one point this old woman got into a car, a brand new mustang, and drove off. She was a bit weary of other cars so she stuck to riding on the sidewalks. Her car was an electric kind and was plugged in with a very long extension cord back in the building she’d left. So she finally ran out of cord and had to stop. It happens that she stopped right at the top of a sidewalk staircase, like you see in Paris. She got out of the car, carrying her kitty cat, and stepped down the few steps, about ten of them, to the lower sidewalk, were she sat down and started pulling on the extension cord so as to be able to start all over again. That’s when some young girl of about ten or thirteen years walked up to her and harassed the old woman, telling her how once that kitty cat she’s holding bit her and she was going to tell on her. This is all quite confusing. I’m not sure what the old lady in the electric mustang had to do with anything. It was towards the end and I was tired of dreaming all ready.

The short story was more interesting. I was a man on the run. I was an Indian on the run from a movie shooting crew. You see, I played an evil man on a popular television series, and finally I had had enough, and went on the run. I no longer wanted to be portrayed as such. It all started on an afternoon stroll with my family in a Paris neighborhood when something was said that I disagreed with profoundly – as if I was thirteen or eighteen again, in total rebellion against anything my family said – and I ran off. I started running through the streets which quickly became more of a West Texas flatland of desert and bushes. At first, it was my family members who would come after me, trying to talk some sense into me, telling me I had to get back to the film set. I refused, I ran, I climbed rocks, jumped over ravines, nothing was going to force me back to that film set where I played an evil man with no scruples. Then the film crew started getting involved. They weren’t nearly as nice as my family. They fought me, threatened me, but I was always one step ahead, they couldn’t catch me, until I climbed this rocky small hill on the side of a busy country road, and followed it through till I found myself real high up with nothing in front of me. It was either jump or get caught, but I thought about it too long, and there was the producer right on my back. He was very angry, and pulled out some papers filled with numbers and charts. He was yelling at me, tugging at my shoulder, telling me to get the fuck back to work. Look at all I had cost him all ready, I would have to pay him all this money back, that there was no running away. I told him, show me my original contract then, show me where it says I owe you diddly shit, where it says I can’t quit whenever the hell I want to. And that’s when I decided to jump. Underneath, a good jump, was a lot of sand, and I decided it would break my fall, so I jumped, and the producer climbed back down the other way. He had people surrounding me from the other sides of the road. I landed without hurting myself except now I was in this large hole with a difficult climb all around me. Almost as large as an Olympic size swimming pool, but nowhere to go, I was trapped, I thought. A car screeched and stopped right on the edge of my sand trap. The nose of the car hanging off the edge. One of these old square numbers. An Oldsmobile or something from the mid-eighties. Red burgundy paint in bad shape needing of some work. A woman at the wheel looking down into the hole at me. Shit, I says to myself, there they are, they’ve got me now, I can’t get away, I’m trapped. She gets out of the car, she’s wearing a two piece bathing suit, and she jumps into the hole with me. I go to her to see what the hell’s she doing. She’s laying in the sand, turning around so that’s she’s mostly on her back, and she’s looking at me with big round eyes, scared.

“Please don’t hurt me too bad, I know you’re evil and you’re on the run, but I just want to be famous.”

I realize she’s not one of them, that she’s only some crazy broad, god only knows what’s she’s thinking, so I go to her, sit next to her placing my right hand on her stomach, she’s thinking I’m about to hurt her real bad, when I say...

“I’m really just a nice guy. The rest is fiction.”

That’s when it gets weird. Big pink cubes start falling from the sky, barely missing us, bouncing up and down. I’m now watching three space aliens playing a board game. They’re playing with large dice-like pink cubes, and little stick figures. I recognize myself, the man on the run, and the damsel in self-distress, as two of the little stick figures they’re playing with. Other stick figures surrounding us such as the producer and his team. Then, one of the space aliens tells the other two, “You loose!” And slams one of the large pink dices on me and the damsel to squash us. A little splatter of red squirts out from under the pink cube. The three space aliens have a big laugh as they get up to go do something else.

Saturday, July 09, 2005

SATURDAY MORNING 


The week has zoomed by. Work has been non-stop. It seems like we cannot keep up with the amount of booze we sell – people ‘need’ and purchase – and our storage room is a mess. Boxes stacked five to eight high, hundreds and hundreds of bottles of booze just waiting to be shelved. Again, and I cannot divulge numbers – against company policy – but we sold LOADS of booze. These people sometimes come several times a week, buying gallons at a time of whisky, vodka, and tequila. It amazes me. One young woman who is a personal trainer at a gym a couple of miles away, comes in sometimes three to fours times a day, buying pints and half pints of the cheapest vodka. She’s probably barely 26 years old. She’s a good looking girl with an athlete’s derriere and an inspiring chest, always wearing trainer’s tights. She speaks in a high squeaky voice, always slightly sweaty with her dark hair sticking to her forehead, and has through the last few months told me all about how her and her boyfriend do nothing but argue, where she’s from, her lineage, et cetera. We’ve recently found out she also hits the other liquor store, the next one down the road, sometimes has much as she hits us. What do we do? Keep selling her the stuff? That’s what I say. She’s an adult, and it’s her business, or do we have a talk with her? Tell her to buy a big bottle so she only comes in once a day? Smells of hypocrisy to me. She’s not the worse. Wait till Christmas season rolls back around, and the Christmas tree people stake their corner of the highway as they do every year, with their r.v.’s and their vans full of pine trees, and start their six week venture. One of the fellows, he’ll come three times a day to buy his pint of cheap whisky, and usually goes for a fifth or a liter on Saturday afternoon – after he’s all ready had his morning pint – to make sure and make it through Sunday whence, as is the law in this god-fearing state, we cannot open our doors and cater to the needs of our thirsty neighbors. We are your local neighborhood liquor store, looking out for your best interest... you: the church-going-republican-voting-god-worshiping public. But they, they are not the worst, the two I mentioned all ready, they are in need, and they come and I giveth – for the right amount of course – and I listen, and I ask questions so as to put little facts and figures of their lives to memory, so as to remember what they drink, what they have drunk, and what they’d like to drink. I file thousands upon thousands of useless bits of information about these people. Hundreds and hundreds of them. How much money they carry in their wallets, do they pay cash or credit or check, what kind of car do they drive, what do they do for a living, can they afford me to sell them the “really good stuff” or should I contain myself and be happy selling them the cheap bottom of the shelf gut rotting liver killing mucus of the filthiest distilleries of corn in the world? Do they have their one and only drink or do they like to change every once in a while? Do they go for the wine at all? Or hate the grape? Do they have a sweet tooth, and how is the girlfriend / boyfriend / husband /wife /daughter / son / dog doing these days? Facts and figures. Numbers and dates. Who’s on a diet and who’s a gourmet cook? Who comes from California, or has just gone on a vacation to Guatemala? But those two, the tree salesman and the gym girl, they’re only two unfair examples. Alcohol has no economic, religious, color, linguistic, ethnic, or any other lines of division. They all come in my store, and they all need just as much as the other. I’ve had people come in and preaching the good word of our lord Jesus Christ holding on to a half gallon of gut rotting vodka – oh yeah, and by the way, this here bottle of booze is for my brother in law who, bless his soul, is a sinner, but one must love and forgive all – and continue to give me the low down on my soul as I quietly cash in the sell, nod my head, and tell him “thank you sir, and have a good day...” and please don’t start sucking from that bottle till you’ve gotten home, will you, because I’d hate to have a Jesus-loving half wit preaching the good word his windows down, going a hundred miles an hour in his half tone SUV guzzling that stuff down like babe attached to his mother’s teat. I know how much people drink. I have brain surgeons, real estate brokers, lawyers, elementary school teachers, construction workers, bakers, computer programmers, politicians, dishwashers, waiters, bartenders, chefs, world travelers, artists... and the list goes on. But I’m starting to sound as if I hold a grudge. I don’t. As if I’m judging them. I don’t. Many of my customers have become acquaintances, and maybe some of them will become my friends if I stay there long enough. I appreciate many of them, and some of them I even enjoy selling them the stuff. Not as in I’m selling you this drug you need, but here, lets talk about this and that whisky, how they differ and what gives each of them different character. It’s fun, I must admit, when I’ve sold somebody a bottle and they come back a week later and tell me, Thank you Francois, that was some awesome stuff, show me some more, I trust you now. That’s the fun part of my job. Discovering new wines and spirits, appreciating them, and then giving that appreciation to my customers. That’s the fun part. It’s just... I don’t know, maybe I’m cranky this morning, and I don’t feel like putting in a ten hour day today, because it’s Saturday and because I’d like to stay home and because I’d like to have my weekend for once... I don’t know... maybe it’s all these bits of pieces of all these people’s lives that I’ve put to memory and stored away in my mental cabinets... it takes so much room, and there’s not that much space in there as it is, because I’ve also consumed my good share. Saturday morning. I must remember this, it’s only just another Saturday morning.

Thursday, July 07, 2005

BRUTUS 


My dog Brutus is at the clinic spending some very unpleasant times. Hopefully he’ll pull through. He has contracted the virus Parvo, which completely dehydrates the dog. The vet says there’s an 89% chance of success. I’ve got to get back to the clinic this morning, then upon getting back home, I have to disinfect the house. There is no danger of the virus infecting humans, but once a dog has had this disease, he can contract it again, and apparently, this is one strong virus which can live for days at room temperature. None of this is any fun, and poor little Brutus is going through a bad time.

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

UNDER THE WEATHER 


Been a bit under the weather lately. Both Brutus and me and are simply not up to par. Temperature reached 108 – 110 yesterday. That doesn’t help. Fourth of July weekend with long busy hours at the liquor store, being away from home much longer than usual, and two evenings in a row of grill-out and guzzling of beer probably doesn’t help. And having to be back at work on Monday early on where it was my duty to do the liquor order for the next week. After an all day affair at the house on Sunday, getting in my car and going to work at 8h15 Monday morning was not easy. All afternoon Sunday: loads of people, lots of dogs, three kids. Lots of screaming kids, drunken conversations, way too much food – especially the meat, which I rarely eat now days, usually no more than once a week other than special occasions – and more booze than you can shake a stick at (I’m probably not using that expression correctly.) Took Brutus to the vet this afternoon. Brutus has no energy, less than yesterday, woke me up in the middle of the night throwing up, won’t eat since Monday, and looks depressed. First thing the vet asked me:

“Is he in love?”
“Uh?”
“Is he in love that you know of? It’s sometimes hard to tell with dogs.”
“I don’t know.”
“When they’re young like that, and they smell a female a block or two away, or they hear some other dog barking, they get all excited and they don’t know what to do about it. And then they get all depressed.”
“Never thought about that. Guess that makes sense.”
“He’s a young one, doesn’t know what hit him. I used to be like that too, in my earlier days.”

The following questions were the normal types of questions, or rather the kinds you’d expect from a vet. What’s he been doing, eating, shiting, et cetera. This vet has been recommended by Glenn, Kari, Brian, and Tracie. And I like this guy a lot. There was none of that hospital type of feel. Just a bench in the reception area. And he just bent down and stuck a thermometer up Brutus’ ass to check his temperature, then his stool. All along asking me all kinds of question. He was wearing sweat pants and a t-shirt, and he charged less than half what other people do. Right down to earth. I felt a little bad because I didn’t have any cash on me. He only accepts checks or cash, so the receptionist girl said, no problem, gave me an envelope and told me to put the check in the mail the minute I have a moment. It just so happens that Kari is taking her two dogs and two cats in tomorrow, so I’ll give her the check.

Is Brutus in love? That is the big question. Maybe that’s my problem too. Why am I not in love?

Friday, July 01, 2005

23h50 


Been writing letters to people, some of whom are friends, some of whom might become friends, to submit stories / articles / interviews to the online magazine Claire and myself will be publishing soon. We have been working on getting a small press going for the last few months. This small press goes by the name of Les Editions Hors Serie, and it is registered in France as a not-for-profit organization, Loi 1901.

As I wrote in one of my letters:

“The working theme of our first issue is: Life, beyond the mainstream and around the corner... or, life lived outside the mainstream. Wondering if you’d have anything you’d like to submit to our magazine. Multilingualism and multiculturalism are an important element of what we’re trying to do. Living outside of one’s element, country, language, et cetera, has been rather significant for Claire, myself, and many of our friends, and it’s in that spirit that we’re trying to create this small press.

"We’re looking for but are not limiting ourselves to: Interviews with artists /filmmakers / writers, written or photographed portraits of the just-mentioned or others, photo essays, personal essays – preferably revolving around one incident and talked about in a simple straightforward style, but not necessarily – short-stories, one-act plays, short screenplays, and poetry... or... ? something else? a photo-op? a great recipes which somehow relates to our theme? an interview with oneself, kinda like Celine did once with himself because he couldn’t stand journalists?”

And this is what I have been doing, as well as teaching myself HTLM and working at my favorite liquor store, and the reason why I’ve been very bad at writing new posts on this blog... (which very few people read anyway... leave me some f...ing comments every once in while telling me how much you appreciate me! (or not... or just to say hi Frenchy!) damn it, I’m sensitive that way.)

23h23 


Perusing the second-hand bookstore the other day before going to work, I found a little book which might turn out to be a small treasure, though it’s been written in intermittently here and there. Why do people write in books? Make marks? Underline sentences? It’s highly annoying, and if perchance you are reading this post, and that you happen to be one of these people: Please stop! Think of the people who will inherit such and such books, they may not want their attention drawn to one sentence on the page, which to you might have had a specific and significant meaning, but for them only takes their attention from the rest of the page for reasons they don’t necessarily understand. I bought the book anyway, because it had only a few marks through its pages, and because it’s a book by an author I’ve enjoyed, an author who has not published all that much, and a title I had never heard about: Willie Master’ Lonesome Wife, by William H. Gass. I’ve only started reading the small book.

Here is a paragraph from this book:

“Suppose, for instance, a stranger were to–oh, say you’re laughing uproariously, and that’s the occasion for it–spit in your mouth, god forbid. Still, daily, they do worse. So here you are, you’ve cracked your face across–ha ha ha-ing–and someone–some enemy, some social scientist, some polisher of singular skills–fires it in suddenly. Well you’ve always had your own wash working for you, sloshing about–an inland sea foaming up against its rocks (how grand that’s put, how grand), and you don’t mind it. You don’t go hithering and thithering, do you? moaning, do you? god, my god, my head is leaking, lord, my head is leaking through my mouth, my god, and down my throat and past my shoulders, all those tubes, good lord, and towards my shoes? In that case, then, you must be friendly to it. You’re old chums. But hawk blind on a table and you’ll never tell your spatter from a thousand. Queens. Boyfriends. Bums. If you have an experimental twist, try this: expectorate into a glass–sufficiently–twelve times should do it. Do not tarry. Drink the spittle. Analyze your reluctance. And wonder why they call saliva the sweet wine of love.”

by William H. Gass from his book Willie Masters’ Lonesome Wife.

“HOT AS YOU KNOW WHAT” 

said a little old lady in her eighties buying a half gallon of cheap vodka from me today when I asked her how things were with her.

It’s deadingly – I’m sorry, sir, that is not a word – HOT... rather: It is so hot, it is deadening – maybe... not sure if this is the proper word usage, or if my brain is farting – abrutissant is what I'm trying to say. My A.C., a small window unit in the living room, cannot keep the house cool, it barely sputters gasp like efforts. Upon coming back from an eleven hour day at the liquor store, driving for half an hour in an A.C.-less car, I placed a sheet on the couch – forget the bedroom, it’s an oven – and attempted to take a nap. The couch is upholstered with orange velvet, and laying on it without a sheet is like placing oneself on a cooking stove. Nothing doing. What I need to be doing right now is write a couple of letters. However, my brain feels like refried beans. I’m afraid of what might come out. Here I am at my desk. What the hell, I’ll give it a shot, with the knowledge that I do have the option to NOT send what I write. And this is where things gets tricky. Do I have the ability to decipher passable communication from loopy blabber?

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