November 24, 2008
Lille, France
Dear Blog,
Today, o blog, if you had watched me through a window (note: you must NEVER watch me through a window) you would no doubt conclude, after considering the magnitude of my inactivity, the extent of my lassitude, and ferocity of my languor, that today was a wasted day. And upon confrontation and logical presentation of the evidence, I would admit and agree. Then I would pause for a moment in self reflection, and ask myself under troubled brow, Did I really travel thousands of miles and pay thousands of dollars to sit quietly in a dark room?
Apparently yes.
And now dusk arrives, bringing nothing but the day to an end, because nothing else was begun. How do you describe such a man as I on such a day as this? Barnaclesque. Yes, thats the word, the word that describes the salient features of a barnacle's life, which parallels my own more often than I'd like. Our behavior is only noticeably different at meal times. You see, I am, at present, unequipped to filter my meals from the atmosphere. Perhaps if I could grow a proper mustache... Then what a human ode to crustacean I would be!
But alacks! and laments aside, I'd like to bring blame and finger pointing to the forefront. Lazy didn't become the word of the day because I woke up singing it. Not at all. You should know that the housekeeper has quite maliciously trapped me in my room. You see, she doesn't know that I'm here, and that is the lock on my cell. She thinks the house to be empty, and is behaving according, which is to say insanely. Conversing with the cats, whispering ingredients to the soups as if they're curious about their own composition, humming along with the vacuum as they dance and dance and dance. If I were to barge out of my room and into her strange, fantastical universe of songs and whispers and dances, well, it would be a shattering invasion of privacy, something from which I doubt her ego could ever recover. I expect you can see the rudeness of her assumptions and the chivalry of my inaction.
You can, can't you?
Blog,
Josh
Monday, November 24, 2008
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Inconclusions on the Durity of Life
September 15, 2008
Lille, France
Dear Blog,
The other night, during a particularly lucid and compelling dream, I spit into my bed. Be convinced, my friends, that I was not simply drooling. No, this was an active process: collecting and forming a bolus of saliva, then mightily discharging it from my mouth and into the bed sheets. You should know that all the labial and lingular activity did indeed attract the attention of my consciousness, who rushed to the scene just in time to yell "What do you think you're...!" But it was too late. I was awake and cleaning up my unconsciousness' mess. Again. I swear. Its like caring for a retarded baby and a choleric old man at the same time.
Life is hard.
And now a clarifying point. The bed in which my expectorate shall henceforth repose is not actually my bed. No, I would never own such a decadent thing. Charlotte used to sleep there when she lived with her mother, Laurence. She moved out and I moved in. Why? Presumably as a live in English tutor for Laurence, though thats not what she's telling her friends. No, she tells them I'm the "Mommy-Sitter." Someone she got to play games with and share meals with now that most of her kids are out of the house. Whatever. I'm still going to list this as "English Tutor" on my resume. I think that will keep more eyebrows in their proper, lowered positions and require less explanation.
But the mommy-sitting is going well. My chambers are adequate, the standard two-story bedroom with private bath and balcony. The house keeper fixes breakfast on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and turns the room once a week. As for the hours I keep "on the job," they are irregular, and the work varies. Last week we went jogging. Tomorrow she wants to go to a water polo match, and we have plans to read a comic book together.
Life ain't so hard.
Much of my time is free, spent in a manner of my choosing. Yesterday I attempted to find a nearby library. I gave up after five hours when the closest thing to a book lender I had found was a Turkish sandwich shop.
And on the topic of sandwiches, the scale in the bathroom tells me I've gained 6 pounds in the week I've been here. Egregious slander and malicious falsehood! I plan to work the thing over, to attain, by its own admission, that it is a liar and a thief and wants to see me ruined.
Life is hard.
Blog,
Josh
Lille, France
Dear Blog,
The other night, during a particularly lucid and compelling dream, I spit into my bed. Be convinced, my friends, that I was not simply drooling. No, this was an active process: collecting and forming a bolus of saliva, then mightily discharging it from my mouth and into the bed sheets. You should know that all the labial and lingular activity did indeed attract the attention of my consciousness, who rushed to the scene just in time to yell "What do you think you're...!" But it was too late. I was awake and cleaning up my unconsciousness' mess. Again. I swear. Its like caring for a retarded baby and a choleric old man at the same time.
Life is hard.
And now a clarifying point. The bed in which my expectorate shall henceforth repose is not actually my bed. No, I would never own such a decadent thing. Charlotte used to sleep there when she lived with her mother, Laurence. She moved out and I moved in. Why? Presumably as a live in English tutor for Laurence, though thats not what she's telling her friends. No, she tells them I'm the "Mommy-Sitter." Someone she got to play games with and share meals with now that most of her kids are out of the house. Whatever. I'm still going to list this as "English Tutor" on my resume. I think that will keep more eyebrows in their proper, lowered positions and require less explanation.
But the mommy-sitting is going well. My chambers are adequate, the standard two-story bedroom with private bath and balcony. The house keeper fixes breakfast on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and turns the room once a week. As for the hours I keep "on the job," they are irregular, and the work varies. Last week we went jogging. Tomorrow she wants to go to a water polo match, and we have plans to read a comic book together.
Life ain't so hard.
Much of my time is free, spent in a manner of my choosing. Yesterday I attempted to find a nearby library. I gave up after five hours when the closest thing to a book lender I had found was a Turkish sandwich shop.
And on the topic of sandwiches, the scale in the bathroom tells me I've gained 6 pounds in the week I've been here. Egregious slander and malicious falsehood! I plan to work the thing over, to attain, by its own admission, that it is a liar and a thief and wants to see me ruined.
Life is hard.
Blog,
Josh
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