I love this! Felt transported to Paris. The slowing down and observing is a universal quality of good writing, but there's something very French about it too. Especially appreciating those moments that don't need to do or be anything other than just... be.
I like the photo you took of me poring (not "pouring") over books. It makes me look like something between a priest at his devotions and an alchemist creating unholy substances - which is probably not far from the truth. As you say, the textures of our days wax and wane. "Some days are diamonds, some days are stone...." Keep up the good work.
Ok. This was a good read and made me jealous of you except about the video game which, if I had been transported into your walking-around existence a la "Being John Malkovich," I woulda tried to convince you to skip. (Come on, Man. These games were invented for people who live in plywood shacks on the outskirts of Bakersfield. YOU, on the other hand, live in Paris!) My top question is: whaddya mean a garage filled with books 100-feet below the cobblestones...? And you tell us there are other garages even deeper where a Serbian concierge is likewise searching for valuable volumes... This requires more elucidation than that shiny light you show in the photograph. Whose garages, whose books, why are they abandoned and why do you know where the secret passage is???? In any case, this reads like a small sample of a wonderful life... Plus you live over a couscous place (even though you said kabab, I'm changing it to couscous cause that's more romantic and brings back fonder memories of my own days in the city of light... (I have some other questions... but no time to ask them at the moment.) Thanks for this.
“during lunch I remember that not everything has to be reduced to narrative” - what a sobering reminder (and what an excuse to just chill out and enjoy the view! phew, finally!)
I love this! Felt transported to Paris. The slowing down and observing is a universal quality of good writing, but there's something very French about it too. Especially appreciating those moments that don't need to do or be anything other than just... be.
I like the photo you took of me poring (not "pouring") over books. It makes me look like something between a priest at his devotions and an alchemist creating unholy substances - which is probably not far from the truth. As you say, the textures of our days wax and wane. "Some days are diamonds, some days are stone...." Keep up the good work.
Ok. This was a good read and made me jealous of you except about the video game which, if I had been transported into your walking-around existence a la "Being John Malkovich," I woulda tried to convince you to skip. (Come on, Man. These games were invented for people who live in plywood shacks on the outskirts of Bakersfield. YOU, on the other hand, live in Paris!) My top question is: whaddya mean a garage filled with books 100-feet below the cobblestones...? And you tell us there are other garages even deeper where a Serbian concierge is likewise searching for valuable volumes... This requires more elucidation than that shiny light you show in the photograph. Whose garages, whose books, why are they abandoned and why do you know where the secret passage is???? In any case, this reads like a small sample of a wonderful life... Plus you live over a couscous place (even though you said kabab, I'm changing it to couscous cause that's more romantic and brings back fonder memories of my own days in the city of light... (I have some other questions... but no time to ask them at the moment.) Thanks for this.
Love this little something from nothing!
“during lunch I remember that not everything has to be reduced to narrative” - what a sobering reminder (and what an excuse to just chill out and enjoy the view! phew, finally!)