Fragments 2

Last fall, she had painted her walls the color of heavy roses and the room had glowed in the thick, late autumnal light and kept her warm throughout the winter, encasing her like a pleasant womb, the buried burrow of a small, furred thing. Standing in the paint shop in October, dizzied by columns of softly gradating colors with names like "Damask Dream" and "Tea For Two," never, never could she have anticipated this summer...

She couldn't have known that the heat that swelled the air would swell her walls too, that breathing in a color could be a slow death. She imagined the paint coating her insides, like the commercials for Pepto Bismol where the pink goes down the cut-out man's esophagus to his stomach, but with none of the supposed relief.

(Standing in some sort of shop, a diner?) R looked at her with the same eyes that he used to look at the article on his father. His eyes twitched and seemed to change color every few seconds as if they just couldn't decide. Right now they were twitching on her but he was talking about Ms. Sandhurst and her new baby and would they have a another principal this year and M couldn't tell whether the twitching was for her or for the article on Mr. W or for Ms. Sandhurst and her baby. After a while she decided it was for her because the newspaper was tucked away under R's arm and he was describing his recent trip to Pittsburgh.
"They have this old prison just outside of the city where they used to keep Rebel soldiers during the Civil War and a bunch of them died of gangrene and things. And they were buried right there, 'cept you can't tell exactly where 'cause they didn't mark them or anything. So you could be standing on a dead body and not even know it." His voice trailed off and M was no longer certain whether he was talking to her or to himself; his eyes, now unmoving, were fixed on the ground before him as if straining to discover any corpses quietly sleeping beneath. Involuntarily, M lowered her eyes too. The stained parquet floor of the [ ] shop looked harmless enough, but you never knew.

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Holy Crap

It's snowing!
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Talent

Yes, but can your critters do this?

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Spring and all

Spring is creeping back, the inexorable little thing, so nonchalantly malignant, like mushrooms, or caterpillars. I guess there's nothing that says that we're entitled to any sort of happiness (unless you count the Declaration of Independence which, anyway, the Founding Fathers wrote by the seat of their pantaloons and really only guarantees the right to pursue happiness, hardly the same thing). I look at my dog sometimes and wonder if he's happy and who knows? but he's alive and warm and that seems to be enough for him.
Anyway, I'm afraid of Spring like I'm afraid of a magnificent, towering lady who beams her good graces on everyone but saves a twisted sneer just for me. A massive symptom of self-absorption, I know, but the truth. Maybe my point is that you can be sulky at a funeral, but pout at a wedding and everyone will think you're an ass. I do hate a good wedding.
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Paris diary

Excellent news: The images are working, so no more of this cut-and-paste business. Was blind, but now I see.

A word on Hemingway:

I've fallen in love with A Moveable Feast in all its funniness and meanness and underlying pain. I'm putting down an excerpt and I'm going to feel dirty about it but I'm putting it down anyway:

"We had a drink of something and I listened while Ezra [Pound] and [Wyndham] Lewis talked about people in London and Paris. I watched Lewis carefully without seeming to look at him, as you do when you are boxing, and I do not think I had ever seen a nastier-looking man. Some people show evil as a great race horse shows breeding. They have the dignity of a hard chancre. Lewis did not show evil; he just looked nasty.

"Walking home I tried to think what he reminded me of and there were various things. They were all medical except toe-jam and that was a slang word. I tried to break his face down and describe it but I could only get the eyes. Under the black hat, when I had first seen them, the eyes had been those of an unsuccessful rapist."

Hemingway was probably writing in the throes of a depression that eventually killed him, which makes his levity seem all the sadder. In quasi-tribute (and in a feeble attempt to fill this sucker up), I've decided to post excerpts on my stay in Paris. So you get the thrill of reading real pieces of my journal without me having to actually give anything crucial away. Win-win.

Monday, February 19
Landed 1:30 pm CDG. 50's-ish man with big belly at baggage claim kept looking over at little boy next to him. Not a relation. Definitely creepy. Felt immediately disoriented. Stood outside for bus for half an hour without knowing which bus I wanted. Finally got on one that looked right; ended up at another terminal of airport. Grabbed another bus and made it to Roissy station. About to pay for train ticket to Paris and discovered wallet was missing. Had to go to hotel next door to use phone to call mom (luckily still had phone card) and had to go even further to next terminal to change more money. After racking brain, concluded that wallet was stolen at CDG while trying to call Hôtel Palace. Felt violated and sick. Hotel had cancelled my reservation and could offer me another room for 24€. Place de la République nearby. Walked around, bought panini and large cookie. At room, ate panini and promptly passed out until 3 a.m. Couldn't sleep after. Cried some.

Tuesday, February 20
Asked for shower key in the morning from concierge, call him Concierge #2. Chided me for leaving light on all night. Worried he would think me typical inconsiderate American. Needed not have feared, since all he saw was the Korean part. Kept saying stock Korean phrases whenever we met from there on out. Felt slightly ooged. Apparently gave same impression to mom when she called hotel later on. Began day by getting two stolen traveler's cheques reimbursed. AE office across from Opéra Garnier. Had first pain au chocolate--delicious. Walked down around Louvre, bought ham sandwich (with egg! but slightly mustardy so not so terrible) and picked spot in Palais Royale garden to eat. Was accosted by creepy Asian fetish guy. Tried to ply his case with scoop on Chinese buffet and Korean cultural center. Luckily lost him at crosswalk and ducked into Louvre des Antiquares as insurance. Antiquares bizarre and pretentious, individual shop rooms with no prices. Items to buy? to bid on later? merely to covet? Walked back to hotel by way of Les Halles. Clothes stores intimidating, even H & M. Spent some time in book section of fnac. Le Petit Prince only 8,50€ but slightly damaged. St. Sulpice next door, rather empty, rowdy kids rambling about just outside. Stopped by Espace Killwatch, strangest used clothes store, merchandise looked and cost same as new ones. Planned on having dinner at restaurant around hotel, but chickened out. Ordered Chinese take-out, chicken with black mushrooms. Good to have warm food and rice. Tried to write some, ended up crying again. Slept early and deep.

Wednesday, February 21
First item of the day: See Centre Pompidou. Grabbed another pain au chocolat for breakfast. Found small bookshop on the way that had Petit Prince paperback (with small red pen marking on binding) and edition of Verlaine for cheap. Didn't realize until walked out of shop that P. P. cost 12,50€. Spent next few days scouring children's sections of bookstores looking for cheaper one, but no one had same edition. Did pick up 20€ mini-hardback of Contes de H. C. Andersen with lovely illustrations. Told lady it was gift and had it gift-wrapped. Also bought two postcards + free postcard (old photo of bookstore) with gift wrap. Totally worth the lie. Also bought three postcards at Centre Pompidou. Bizarre layout (what are the middle floors for?) but interesting selection. Liked artist who painted harlequins and crucified Christs, can't remember name. Also guy who created fierce, ugly portraits of good friends. Much I didn't understand. Had lunch across street. Continued east to Place de la Bastille, then south across Place des Vosges to St.-Louis-en-Île. Decided against musées de Picasso and de Victor Hugo; latter cost money and former I'd seen enough of at Pompidou. Wandered around islands, bought mustard for Chris at L'Epicerie. Had first café sit at well-situated place in back of Notre Dame with view of Pont de St.-Louis. Le limonade disappointingly turned out to be 4€ Sprite. Had to move indoors because of wind (with smokers and Korean girls) but somehow lacked ambiance. Explored St. Michel, more bookstores, incl. Shakespeare & Co. (no Whitman descendent, just large, long-haired Americaine with boho costume). Found boulangerie called 'Paul' w/menu for sandwich + dessert + drink. Ate in hotel room while perusing the day's treasures. Sandwich no good, but flan marvelous. Stressed about making most of following day, among other things; couldn't sleep till 3:00.

Thursday, February 22
Finally got up guts to use Carte Orange on Metro night before. 0.20€ short for pictures; had to ask lady nearby. Later found 20 centime coin hiding in pouch. Then asked photoshop guy for scissors; kindly cut and pasted for me. Realized photo only necessary for bus, not metro. Determined to make most of card, use more than 20€ worth that I'd paid. Another pain au chocolat for breakfast. Late start, took metro to Latin Quarter, visited Hotel Cluny. (Always unintentionally go to places at busiest--opening--hours.) Had sandwich + drink deal for lunch. Sandwich had weird green olive paste that I wasn't fond of. Orangina in a can, but still Orangina. Ate on bench in front of Sorbonne. Homeless man kept harassing me with "chinois, chinois." Had to finish eating on steps of Panthéon. Decided not to go inside, not that interested. Continued down rue Soufflot and hit the Jardin du Luxembourge. Pretty neat. Think where 'Paris' part of "Little Women" shot. Or tried to give impression of having been shot. Tons of statues. Walked south thru Jardin Robert blah blah & Marco Polo, then back up again past Luxem. to St. Germain. "The Lives of Others" playing (or, "Les Vies des Autres"). Debated whether to watch it. Decided to go back to room and rest feet. (Later realized that German movie would have French subtitles and I wouldn't be able to understand half of it.) Took extended nap, longer than planned. Hurriedly caught metro to 7ème to see Eiffel Tower and Hôtel des Invalides. Instead ended up spending time at the esplanade, the Pont Alex. III, and the palais across the Seine. For some reason, just couldn't find Eiffel Tower though only a block away. Got creeped out in dark, fled to St. Michel. Bought prosciutto sandwich, ate in room.

Fin

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Fragments 1

M (indicates name beginning with letter) was just thirteen when the late August winds carried a tropical/foreign heat to her town. [Already] the schoolless summer days had [long since)] turned from sweet to sickening, the unbridled hours warping and bleeding without the steady, measuring beat of the classroom bell...

Usually M stayed in bed until lunchtime and then passed the remainder of the day in a hazy stupefaction/willful numbness designed to keep all [form of] sensation, including the heat, out. On the last Saturday of the month, however, she was up at dawn, stirred awake by the familiar grumble of her father's car. It was barely six and the suffocating air that had melted in the night was already seeping its way back into the house. She leaned out of her window just in time to see the gray truck make a brisk left from her street and onto the main roadway.

By the time the sun reached its midday post, the morning's moisture had left the earth/ground and clung to the air so that, venturing out, a body didn't know whether to walk or swim. Neither choice appealed to M, who instead decided on utter stillness and sat sullenly loathing the soaking sensation from her spot on the back lawn beneath the mulberry tree. Her petulant expression was augmented by the dimpled adolescence that stubbornly lingered on her face/cheeks despite her having reached, as she was apt to call it, the fullness of her thirteen years. (quotes?)

space before her blurred by cloud of flies and dandelion fluff

R has nice hands except when he's talking about [ ]. Talking about [ ] he looks a little frightening. But he has nice hands like Father, separate from the rest of his body and still, so very still. But the rest of him is not like Father, or anyway my father. He is like his father, Mr. W who helps the criminals in H-- and walks on only the front half of his feet as if he relied on the wind and speaks in whispers except when he's defending the criminals. R's like that. Except for his hands, which are like Father's.

Separate fragment: Thomas hadn't eaten in five days. On the sixth day, the cold chicken he'd ventured to swallow for breakfast fell out of his stomach and onto the bathroom floor. He made a disgusted face but quickly mopped it up before the cat, Dr. Eversby, got the chance and then made himeself some tea. [Days seven and eight fared little better. When his mother came by on the eleventh day to borrow his gardening shears, she discovered him lying face down in the kitchen clutching a cup of vanilla yogurt, half the contents of which had been lapped up by Dr. Eversby. Thomas, along with the rest of the yogurt, had expired.] (doesn't die?)

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January Commentary

I was hoping that the images would be working by now, but nothing doing. I think maybe I'll ask my dad to borrow the laptop he keeps in his van, but in the meantime I figured I might as well comment on what I can.

Jane: I'm sorry to hear about the tonsils; this doesn't sound like the healthiest of years for you. In the future I think I'd like to hear more about the various characters you meet in your work as well as travels. You business types constitute an alternate universe, as far as I'm concerned. Corresponding photos would be welcome too, though I might not be able to see them for the time being.

Emily: There's this HUGE blank space where your artwork is supposed to be, about as big as the whole in my heart *tear*. I'm awfully impressed by how productive you seem to be, nevertheless. As for your short story idea, I have to say I was surprised; it was much more...human-scale than what I'd come to expect from you. It sounds like a very original concept, bordering on supernatural but still earthy, which is always fascinating. I'd be interested to hear how you plan on structuring the arc of the story, especially since that's an aspect that gives me some trouble. Looking forward to good things ahead.

Crystal: Again, no images. But a story smorgasbord! It's so weird, because it sounds like something I would read in an actual, physical book off the shelves, but I know that it's coming from you and not some random author. Anyway. I don't know whether you'll appreciate this or not, but I love the bits where occasional Crystalisms peek through (I think Em mentioned this as well), particularly in Ava. It's a little more jarring when they show up in Annie -- "'She's probably a criminal. We should investigate her'" -- but still fun. The Darling character I find frightening and alluring at the same time and am very eager to find out what the deal is with him vis a vis Annie and their possibly illegal activities.

I'm not sure why, but I find Annie's dissatisfaction with her dress strangely touching. It seems to nicely delineate her status as person-in-progress as well as indicate that although memories may be rubbed out, essential humanity/identity can be preserved in the little things, dislikes and desires. There's a lot of great material in the amnesiac passages and Em's pointed out a number of them, but sadly I think some of it's going to have to go. It very effectively elicits emotional response, but if this really is the beginning of your story, then it seems to take away some of your momentum.

Some questions: How does Ava fit into the picture? Grace, Lee, & Co. sound fairly well-to-do, enough to be able to afford a gardener, so why is Lee outside moving rosebushes? Is anybody in this story unattractive? Are we in England? Do people in the 21st century still live like this? And where is Rex?
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