She is curled up, warm, in her apartment. She is listening to the songs of Sufjan Stevens because they are great and they remind her of home. And she is reading On the Road. The heat has just turned on, the apartment has that lovely smell of fall melting into winter – old and dusty. But wonderful.
She doesn’t understand why she has been drawn into this sudden swing of Americana sentimentality –but she feels a little overwhelmed by it. Perhaps it is all the negative things she has to say about her country at the moment and her conscious has rebuked her into a small search for America, here, in France.
She wants to be like Dean Moriarty...just a little bit.
She made her roommate read Metamorphosis. She’s not quite sure why.
Last Saturday she saw an elephant. The Isle de Nantes boasts a small macabre world inspired by Jules Verne of merry-go-rounds and a four story robotic elephant that trots around the island spraying annoyed tourists with their cameras and delighted screaming children. It’s a dark juxtaposition of creatures out of an adult’s nightmare transformed into attractions for the young.
She went for a walk in the rain yesterday- just to see the city shine and glow. She saw a small reunion of several Russian men under a small canapé, shouting and singing songs of the old country.
She saw a man holding a mouse out for children to come and pet.
She saw a movie about a famous French criminal turned maniacally violent by his military service in the Algerian war.
She planted a basil plant on her window sill. It’s cold, but she hopes it will grow.
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