Nostophobia
This has been quite the week. Finals and preparation out the asshole, if you will; taking people to the airport; watching the fragments of an already delirious existence start to slither away--perhaps there's some sense of permanence beneath the peeling façade, perhaps it's just turtles all the way down. Turtles all the way down...
I didn't finish the essays that I was supposed to finish by today. Lack of motivation, time and being clear-headed I'll call it. Il manque du temps. Il manque du temps. We leave in about 5 hours for Avignon and we remain unsure as to whether we'll actually be able to make it on to that train with our bikes as they are. Sometimes the obliterating abrbitraryness of the French is sardonically humorous; other times it makes me just wanna kill a bitch. I suppose we'll see, as that's all we really can do.
I'm hoping this trip is just going to be my brain dropping a giant douce. A big and continuous douce. I hope to clarify a lot of the images that have been most brazenly haunting me lately' and replace them with images of Lavender fields and the Mediterranean. I hope. I'm itching to get out and away from concrete and from a certain hum drum of the kibitzer that being here in Paris has been the last 2/3 months. I'm done with classes. That's a weird thought. I've completed my 'French academic year'.
I don't really know what else to express or communicate in a fashion that is anything but smudged and ugly. That's all I can seem to muster at this pointw. I can tell you, however, that I've been thinking of you. Thinking of you more than you might anticipate. I've also been thinking of you, too; and I've decided that I give up. It's alright, but really--can't people just be like, "Yo, peace. I'm sorry, but peace"? A mild slap in the face is much more preferable to the pursuit of a ghost. Especially a ghost full of holes and outs.
Tant pis. Not to be confused with cat pis.
It's so interesting how much my confusion has just been continuously amplified. I almost feel as if I'm pursuing some kind of buried-beneath-the-fingernails Freudian death-drive motif in some respects. The things I do on two wheels though Paris sometimes are more than just Marc being crazy.
It's like running headfirst into brick walls.
Maybe that's just it. I'm not quite sure.
Maybe I am transforming slowly into some kind of faceless android. Maybe that's for the better.
Well, wish us luck on the trip that awaits us. We're going to need it...
I didn't finish the essays that I was supposed to finish by today. Lack of motivation, time and being clear-headed I'll call it. Il manque du temps. Il manque du temps. We leave in about 5 hours for Avignon and we remain unsure as to whether we'll actually be able to make it on to that train with our bikes as they are. Sometimes the obliterating abrbitraryness of the French is sardonically humorous; other times it makes me just wanna kill a bitch. I suppose we'll see, as that's all we really can do.
I'm hoping this trip is just going to be my brain dropping a giant douce. A big and continuous douce. I hope to clarify a lot of the images that have been most brazenly haunting me lately' and replace them with images of Lavender fields and the Mediterranean. I hope. I'm itching to get out and away from concrete and from a certain hum drum of the kibitzer that being here in Paris has been the last 2/3 months. I'm done with classes. That's a weird thought. I've completed my 'French academic year'.
I don't really know what else to express or communicate in a fashion that is anything but smudged and ugly. That's all I can seem to muster at this pointw. I can tell you, however, that I've been thinking of you. Thinking of you more than you might anticipate. I've also been thinking of you, too; and I've decided that I give up. It's alright, but really--can't people just be like, "Yo, peace. I'm sorry, but peace"? A mild slap in the face is much more preferable to the pursuit of a ghost. Especially a ghost full of holes and outs.
Tant pis. Not to be confused with cat pis.
It's so interesting how much my confusion has just been continuously amplified. I almost feel as if I'm pursuing some kind of buried-beneath-the-fingernails Freudian death-drive motif in some respects. The things I do on two wheels though Paris sometimes are more than just Marc being crazy.
It's like running headfirst into brick walls.
Maybe that's just it. I'm not quite sure.
Maybe I am transforming slowly into some kind of faceless android. Maybe that's for the better.
Well, wish us luck on the trip that awaits us. We're going to need it...