(no subject)

[annikohl]

i was thinking while walking down locust walk today that i seem to have lost this journal as a space for recording the small things i used to take so much pleasure in setting down. and that no space has since taken its place. this means that my interiority tends to stay that way. it ought to be maddening, and maybe it is. i don't know whether i can call myself a writer for the time being. i don't seem to have the time or energy or inclination to write, and even typing seems arduous; my fingers are reluctant and my tongue is foggy -- or maybe my head cottony. but i've been reading poetry this semester -- baudelaire and rimbaud, and bunches of it -- and the more i read, the more i feel like i'm supposed to write. the more i feel guilty for not writing. it's a good kind of guilt, the kind that pushes me to do things. so, what i'm saying is that i want to use this space, for lack of any other, at least to get my insides out.
in other news, i'm alive and well enough. sometimes i want to be back in france so i can live off of rosettes de lyon and baguettes and camembert, with grenadine water. so i can write with cheap fountain pens. so i can speak french, which i don't seem able to so anymore. a year away and i've lost my fluency -- or maybe my fluidity. i miss speaking french. you'd think that in a graduate french program there would be a lot of spoken french, but in the past three weeks, i've made exactly three comments in french during class. fait chier.
and by the way, i'm beginning to miss people quite badly.