July 25th 2009. 10:50 a.m. French time. Provence time. Aix TGV time. The past few days there has been one French word that I can’t stop saying. It’s the only word that comes to mind when I think of anything. When I think of this. Incroyable. C’est incroyable. Maybe there’s another word. Bizarre. C’est bizarre. It’s not just because my vocabulary is severely limited, worse than a 4 year old, but it’s because this really is incredible.
I was talking to my mother on Skype the other day and I was telling her about all the fun cool things I did that day and the day before and she said, “Well it sounds like you’re having a good time!” Yes, despite what I’ve been writing in my blog, I’ve been having an incredible time.
I’m on the train to Paris. I have to change stations in Paris, which I’m a little bit dreading, and then I take the train to London. How bizarre is that. Pretty delightfully bizarre.
This morning was sad. Not only did Vero have to drop me off at the station, she also has to drop Millie, the cat, off at the airport. Millie is going to The States to stay with Bruno’s parents while they go on vacation. Millie is terrified of her little travel box and cars and planes. She’s made this journey before and was meowing continuously. Poor cat. She even was sticking her little paws through the door to try and touch you.
I have a beautiful idea of family. Giving someone a meal at the table with people you may have blood relations to or people who you let come to your home for 6 weeks. Helping someone mix the salad or stir the vegetables. Taking someone to the train station so that they don’t have to go alone. Sharing a cup of coffee. I was absolutely pampered at 14/14b Rue du Puits Neuf. I’ve been absolutely taken care of in Europe.
My family has always tried to feed everyone who walks through the front door, especially those who come through the back door. A little something to eat goes a long way. It can calm you down, get you ready, ease a headache, and as cheesy as it sounds, comfort your spirit. It’s just a bit of kindness that is unparalleled.
Today Vero walked to the bakery to buy some bread to make me a ham and cheese sandwich but she also bought a sweet bread that’s crunchy, flakey, and shaped like a heart. I was touched. She also gave me an orange soda.
I have 3 days 14 hours 41 minutes until this journey is completed. Three and a half days. What is this life? I couldn’t even tell you. I went to bed late and woke up early. I think I slept for 4 hours last night. Maybe a bit longer.
My emotions are absolutely volatile right now and have been for a week or longer. Probably will be for another week or more.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
5 Days 22 Hours
But honestly.
I'm freaking out. I'm having severe mood swings. I'm not Hulking out or anything. I just get overwhelmingly happy and after half a day I'm borderline depressed. I go from being comfortable with the people around me to being unbearably awkward. So awkward I have to just leave.
I've spent most of these last posts not describing Aix or little stories about the people here or the things that happen. I've mostly been writing about the internal things. And most of the posts say basically the same thing "I don't know how to handle this."
I mean, I'm handling it. I'm loving it. It's hurting. It's good for me. There's something to be said for feeling this kind of ache, I just don't know what it is yet.
I'm freaking out. I'm having severe mood swings. I'm not Hulking out or anything. I just get overwhelmingly happy and after half a day I'm borderline depressed. I go from being comfortable with the people around me to being unbearably awkward. So awkward I have to just leave.
I've spent most of these last posts not describing Aix or little stories about the people here or the things that happen. I've mostly been writing about the internal things. And most of the posts say basically the same thing "I don't know how to handle this."
I mean, I'm handling it. I'm loving it. It's hurting. It's good for me. There's something to be said for feeling this kind of ache, I just don't know what it is yet.
A Bit of a Cop Out
I have not written in a while but I have written something pretty hefty about Aix and about my stay here. I figure I'll just copy/paste the whole thing right here. It's a paper for one of my classes. Enjoy.
Musings on the Music
You lock the two locks on your front door – one turns twice to the left, the other turns twice to the right. You pass the Fresh Box Wok and you make a right past the BSA Tattoo Parlor and Hotel de Ville extends to your left. In the mornings you have flower markets. In the afternoons, evenings, and nights, you have café tables and chairs and umbrellas and chalkboards. And musicians. A whole assortment of musicians with their specialties and time slots and expectations. Watch them; you’ll see.
But this is a quick walk for the moment. For now it’s 8:23 a.m. and you’ve got class at 8:30. So no musicians are around. Hang a right onto Saporta and you might see the dirty haired past middle-aged man with a beat up guitar leaning against a building with a cigarette in one hand and a can of beer on the window ledge. You think you saw him last night in the same clothes. Across from this scruffy man is Place des Martyrs de la Résistance and it always has coffee tables. It doesn’t have musicians until 1 p.m. or after. You’ll check for musicians on your way back from class.
There’s no reason for you to wear your earphones when you walk through these streets. They provide music for you. Let them.
After class you have a look - well, a listen, rather. There’s a bit of swing jazz coming from up ahead and when you reach Place des Martyrs de la Résistance a fabulous sight meets your eyes: A jazz trio of young men complete with a tall blond bassist in a fedora and two seated Django-esque guitarists, both brunettes. You don’t have anything to do but stop and sit on a step behind them and listen and watch and wish you could be apart of whatever it is they are.
They face the two large cafes there. They swing away on old traditional jazz tunes and nod to those passing by who make eye contact. One of the guitar cases sits before them on the ground and gently asks for bi-colored coins, or even single colored coins. Anything really. You watch the bassist bob his head up and down with the steady walking of his chords. This group is tight. They feel each other. You’ll later find out the bassist’s name is Vincent but for now you watch him carefully put his bass down on the stone slabbed ground and take off his hat. The guitarists adjust and readjust – pluck a string, turn a knob, strum a chord in unison, scoot the chairs closer – and while they tap in a new number, Vincent weaves his way through the café tables, smiling at the girls and older women, making small talk with their men. The waiters say nothing to Vincent about his addressing their customers for coins. You’ll notice these same waiters chasing off certain musicians and leaving others alone. Perhaps you’ve even seen a waiter make pleasantries with a particular musician. It’s not impossible.
Every time you walk past Place des Martyrs de la Résistance, which is at least four times a day, you look for them. You’re pleased when you find an older jazz quartet with drums and even a fiddle, but you’re always looking for the Django Trio. They usually play around 2 p.m. but never on the weekends.
Today you’ve found neither the Django Trio nor The Old Quartet. Today you have an accordion player. He’s older in a stripped shirt with a less than pearly white grin. He feels French. He leans left with the stretching of his accordion and leans right with its three count. It feels traditional to you, even stereotypical. He paces between the two cafés opposite each other, playing for this table, playing for your enjoyment, playing for your two Euro coins, if he’s lucky.
And why this song, you wonder. Why “Hernando’s Hideaway” among the traditional French songs? You know he must be playing what he does for a reason and perhaps that reason is a hybrid of his love this kind of music and the expectations these coin tossers want to hear when they sip a café crème under a large tree in Aix-en-Provence. This is their South of France vacation, after all, and it should feel French.
There is a chained off section of Place des Martyrs where a massive plaque bears the names of known members of The Resistance who died during the war. You can enter this chained off section and a little brother and sister dance to the accordion player while their adults drink their coffee. The little girl raises her arms above her head and she flexes her fingers and waves a stick and gallops in circles. She stops when the music stops. She starts again with the next song.
After sitting at Place des Martyrs several times you begin to feel the time warp. The swing bands seem to gravitate to the place dedicated to The Resistance. Nazis hated American Swing and today those from Provence who resisted the Nazis are perpetually honored with plaques on the wall, a street in commemoration, and swing for their memory.
You find your evenings at Hotel de Ville. Once you saw a piano player there. Just tonight you’ve found a different jazz trio comprised of a bass, electric guitar, and tenor saxophone. You decide after a while that you don’t like them. After a bit more reflection, you decide that there are several reasons why. The first thing that strikes you is their get up. They’re all wearing straw fedora type hats and cheesy button up shirts. They’re wearing a uniform. A uniform doesn’t necessarily bother you, but it does remind you that these guys are putting on a show. When you stop to think about their show, you recognize that you’ve never been that big of a sax fan, let alone a sax solo. And they’ve got CD’s for sale. Again, this isn’t a reason in itself to dislike them, it just rubs you the wrong way. But the biggest and most legitimate reason to dislike them is that they’re on the scruffy solo guitarists turf and playing into his time.
You see Solo standing by the wall with a cigarette in one hand, a beer on the window ledge, and his guitar propped against his leg. He’s staring at them from behind. He’s puffing away. He’s touching his hair. He coughs something up and spits it on the ground. The next moment you look over at him, he’s approached the trio, waiving his cigarette at them, mumbling something inaudible to you at the tables – and perhaps even to The Pretentious Hats because when he shuffles back to his wall, they tune up and play another song that can no doubt be found on their album.
You’ve noticed Solo before this incident, but never really gave him much thought. If you’re honest, you’re made a little uncomfortable by him. He’s not a music student like the Django Trio and you suspect he’s homeless. But he’s really good. And all of a sudden you’re angry for him! He’s a good musician and this is the place that he has chosen and that has accepted him. The waiters at these four cafes know him and his music. He’s not chased away because he mumbles and smells like beer. There seems to be an agreement that The Pretentious Hats haven’t made. See, The Pretentious Hats want to be watched and looked up on MySpace and bought into. They want your full attention and participation. That’s not how it works here. The people come to Hotel de Ville and want to meet up with their friends and chat, not to attend a concert. When Solo plays, he sits on a box under a tree and plucks complicated classical guitar patterns and hits harmonics and smokes. Only two people actively watch him for a few moments, but when he finishes playing the tables around clap enthusiastically.
You never really know until the last possible second if you’ll give your coins to a street musician or not, but when Solo comes by your table with a mumble and a coin container, you drop a few in because you specifically withheld them from The Pretentious Hats.
Musings on the Music
You lock the two locks on your front door – one turns twice to the left, the other turns twice to the right. You pass the Fresh Box Wok and you make a right past the BSA Tattoo Parlor and Hotel de Ville extends to your left. In the mornings you have flower markets. In the afternoons, evenings, and nights, you have café tables and chairs and umbrellas and chalkboards. And musicians. A whole assortment of musicians with their specialties and time slots and expectations. Watch them; you’ll see.
But this is a quick walk for the moment. For now it’s 8:23 a.m. and you’ve got class at 8:30. So no musicians are around. Hang a right onto Saporta and you might see the dirty haired past middle-aged man with a beat up guitar leaning against a building with a cigarette in one hand and a can of beer on the window ledge. You think you saw him last night in the same clothes. Across from this scruffy man is Place des Martyrs de la Résistance and it always has coffee tables. It doesn’t have musicians until 1 p.m. or after. You’ll check for musicians on your way back from class.
There’s no reason for you to wear your earphones when you walk through these streets. They provide music for you. Let them.
After class you have a look - well, a listen, rather. There’s a bit of swing jazz coming from up ahead and when you reach Place des Martyrs de la Résistance a fabulous sight meets your eyes: A jazz trio of young men complete with a tall blond bassist in a fedora and two seated Django-esque guitarists, both brunettes. You don’t have anything to do but stop and sit on a step behind them and listen and watch and wish you could be apart of whatever it is they are.
They face the two large cafes there. They swing away on old traditional jazz tunes and nod to those passing by who make eye contact. One of the guitar cases sits before them on the ground and gently asks for bi-colored coins, or even single colored coins. Anything really. You watch the bassist bob his head up and down with the steady walking of his chords. This group is tight. They feel each other. You’ll later find out the bassist’s name is Vincent but for now you watch him carefully put his bass down on the stone slabbed ground and take off his hat. The guitarists adjust and readjust – pluck a string, turn a knob, strum a chord in unison, scoot the chairs closer – and while they tap in a new number, Vincent weaves his way through the café tables, smiling at the girls and older women, making small talk with their men. The waiters say nothing to Vincent about his addressing their customers for coins. You’ll notice these same waiters chasing off certain musicians and leaving others alone. Perhaps you’ve even seen a waiter make pleasantries with a particular musician. It’s not impossible.
Every time you walk past Place des Martyrs de la Résistance, which is at least four times a day, you look for them. You’re pleased when you find an older jazz quartet with drums and even a fiddle, but you’re always looking for the Django Trio. They usually play around 2 p.m. but never on the weekends.
Today you’ve found neither the Django Trio nor The Old Quartet. Today you have an accordion player. He’s older in a stripped shirt with a less than pearly white grin. He feels French. He leans left with the stretching of his accordion and leans right with its three count. It feels traditional to you, even stereotypical. He paces between the two cafés opposite each other, playing for this table, playing for your enjoyment, playing for your two Euro coins, if he’s lucky.
And why this song, you wonder. Why “Hernando’s Hideaway” among the traditional French songs? You know he must be playing what he does for a reason and perhaps that reason is a hybrid of his love this kind of music and the expectations these coin tossers want to hear when they sip a café crème under a large tree in Aix-en-Provence. This is their South of France vacation, after all, and it should feel French.
There is a chained off section of Place des Martyrs where a massive plaque bears the names of known members of The Resistance who died during the war. You can enter this chained off section and a little brother and sister dance to the accordion player while their adults drink their coffee. The little girl raises her arms above her head and she flexes her fingers and waves a stick and gallops in circles. She stops when the music stops. She starts again with the next song.
After sitting at Place des Martyrs several times you begin to feel the time warp. The swing bands seem to gravitate to the place dedicated to The Resistance. Nazis hated American Swing and today those from Provence who resisted the Nazis are perpetually honored with plaques on the wall, a street in commemoration, and swing for their memory.
You find your evenings at Hotel de Ville. Once you saw a piano player there. Just tonight you’ve found a different jazz trio comprised of a bass, electric guitar, and tenor saxophone. You decide after a while that you don’t like them. After a bit more reflection, you decide that there are several reasons why. The first thing that strikes you is their get up. They’re all wearing straw fedora type hats and cheesy button up shirts. They’re wearing a uniform. A uniform doesn’t necessarily bother you, but it does remind you that these guys are putting on a show. When you stop to think about their show, you recognize that you’ve never been that big of a sax fan, let alone a sax solo. And they’ve got CD’s for sale. Again, this isn’t a reason in itself to dislike them, it just rubs you the wrong way. But the biggest and most legitimate reason to dislike them is that they’re on the scruffy solo guitarists turf and playing into his time.
You see Solo standing by the wall with a cigarette in one hand, a beer on the window ledge, and his guitar propped against his leg. He’s staring at them from behind. He’s puffing away. He’s touching his hair. He coughs something up and spits it on the ground. The next moment you look over at him, he’s approached the trio, waiving his cigarette at them, mumbling something inaudible to you at the tables – and perhaps even to The Pretentious Hats because when he shuffles back to his wall, they tune up and play another song that can no doubt be found on their album.
You’ve noticed Solo before this incident, but never really gave him much thought. If you’re honest, you’re made a little uncomfortable by him. He’s not a music student like the Django Trio and you suspect he’s homeless. But he’s really good. And all of a sudden you’re angry for him! He’s a good musician and this is the place that he has chosen and that has accepted him. The waiters at these four cafes know him and his music. He’s not chased away because he mumbles and smells like beer. There seems to be an agreement that The Pretentious Hats haven’t made. See, The Pretentious Hats want to be watched and looked up on MySpace and bought into. They want your full attention and participation. That’s not how it works here. The people come to Hotel de Ville and want to meet up with their friends and chat, not to attend a concert. When Solo plays, he sits on a box under a tree and plucks complicated classical guitar patterns and hits harmonics and smokes. Only two people actively watch him for a few moments, but when he finishes playing the tables around clap enthusiastically.
You never really know until the last possible second if you’ll give your coins to a street musician or not, but when Solo comes by your table with a mumble and a coin container, you drop a few in because you specifically withheld them from The Pretentious Hats.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Vincent Drank Absenth, I Drank Iced Coffee
I went to Arles yesterday with my class.
It rained for about 15 minutes around 3:30 or so. I miss the rain. It's been sunny and dry for 5 weeks in Aix. It's been hot. It's been windy a day or two. It's quite different from England. Different season, climate, temperament, and life style.
I hope it rains when I'm in London.
I hope the skies drop with the weight of water and press down on our heads so that we have to hunch over and dodge dense clouds. I hope we have to raise our hands and shove the sky up a foot or two. Then I hope the whole sky takes in one monstrous breath that sucks the clouds all the way back to where they started and then I hope it realizes it's over estimated it's ability to handle so much moisture and ruptures.
I hope the sun is in awe of this and steps back for a moment and is silent and feels slightly ashamed while the rain roars in pain and relief.
It rained for about 15 minutes around 3:30 or so. I miss the rain. It's been sunny and dry for 5 weeks in Aix. It's been hot. It's been windy a day or two. It's quite different from England. Different season, climate, temperament, and life style.
I hope it rains when I'm in London.
I hope the skies drop with the weight of water and press down on our heads so that we have to hunch over and dodge dense clouds. I hope we have to raise our hands and shove the sky up a foot or two. Then I hope the whole sky takes in one monstrous breath that sucks the clouds all the way back to where they started and then I hope it realizes it's over estimated it's ability to handle so much moisture and ruptures.
I hope the sun is in awe of this and steps back for a moment and is silent and feels slightly ashamed while the rain roars in pain and relief.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
I Always Fall in Love With an Open Door
Do you know what today is? Today is a day in Aix-en-Provence. It is 81 degrees F. It's partly cloudy. Mostly sunny. It's humid. It's a bit windy. I walk past the tattoo parlor and wave to the guys who work there. I walk past the Noodle Box and wave and the guys who work there. I walk past the Aix-Presso cafe and wave to the guys who work there. I whistle, which isn't something many girls do here. I get approached by people raising awareness for something and I fail at communicating in French.
I start to evaluate what I've done out of convienance and what I've done out of sheer desire and I see the vast divide between the great former and the ever shrinking latter. I sit in class and look at each person and realize that I know no one and their reality does not include much of what I consider reality.
I am haveing physical reactions to the thought of leaving. Heat in my chest and stomach, my very core. The backs of my knees tense. I tip my head way back.
I unlock an ancient door with two locks and say hello to a cat. I walk up 41 spiral steps. I turn on the air conditioner, drop my backpack and throw myself face down on my bed. I look at my knitting. My laundry basket. My polka dot dress hanging from a bar. I sink. I tell myself I'll do this and that. I do something else. I count days till home. Hours till dinner. Minutes till class. I'll go to bed at a decent hour tonight. I won't. I'll get a decent amount of work done today. I won't. I'll reserve my ticket for London. I've got a little more time yet.
I'll wash my feet. I can't.
These days feel like a little much, don't you think? All this lame duck-feeling air and breath. It's just a matter of time and it should hurt.
I start to evaluate what I've done out of convienance and what I've done out of sheer desire and I see the vast divide between the great former and the ever shrinking latter. I sit in class and look at each person and realize that I know no one and their reality does not include much of what I consider reality.
I am haveing physical reactions to the thought of leaving. Heat in my chest and stomach, my very core. The backs of my knees tense. I tip my head way back.
I unlock an ancient door with two locks and say hello to a cat. I walk up 41 spiral steps. I turn on the air conditioner, drop my backpack and throw myself face down on my bed. I look at my knitting. My laundry basket. My polka dot dress hanging from a bar. I sink. I tell myself I'll do this and that. I do something else. I count days till home. Hours till dinner. Minutes till class. I'll go to bed at a decent hour tonight. I won't. I'll get a decent amount of work done today. I won't. I'll reserve my ticket for London. I've got a little more time yet.
I'll wash my feet. I can't.
These days feel like a little much, don't you think? All this lame duck-feeling air and breath. It's just a matter of time and it should hurt.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Paint
Hey, I just realized that my last few posts have been a little bit whiny. What's with that? And! I haven't really talked about any of the cool stuff that's been going on. I briefly mentioned going swing dancing one night, but I didn't tell you how beautiful it was.
Let me try and do a better job of expressing it.
That night of swing dancing was a little bit like an impressionist painting. A lot like an impressionist painting. It was late and dark and there was a huge big band set up on a stage at the edge of Place Hotel de Ville and all the cafes had rearranged their tables to make way for a dance floor. There were lights strung up around the dance space so it was warm. The night was warm. The people were warm. I wore heels and my black swing dress. I didn't know how legit the dancing would be, but after about 20 minutes and 3 dances, I decided I needed to rush home and put on my dance shoes.
The best way for me to show you what that night was like is to take some of Van Gogh's advice. He said one time to his friend and fellow artist, Paul Gauguin, that maybe it'd be a good idea for painters to work together on one painting, each adding what they do best to create the perfect picture. So. That night was a combination of Van Gogh's night and lighting and Renoir's people and location.
That's what swing dancing in Aix was like.
I've also been seeing a lot of the places that inspired Van Gogh. Last weekend our school took a trip to St. Remy. The assaylum where Van Gogh spent the last 2 years of his life is there. This is where he painted Starry Night. Pam, the woman leading the trip told us how to get to the room he stayed in and then how to get to the gardens he painted. All of it has been preserved so it's basically the exact same way it was when he was a patient there. I booked it to his room while everyone else wandered around the gift shop so I could have a moment alone with Vincent's spirit.
He painted the view from his window minus the metal bars.
I saw his wheat fields. His olive groves. His sky and sun and stone wall and sunflowers and mountain and cypress trees and church steeple and his room. It gave me an idea as to how much of his color really existed in the earth for the rest of us, and how much of his color only existed in his mind.
I have always loved Van Gogh and the more I learn about who he was, how he worked, and what his life was like, I appreciate him and his art more and more. I've started reading some of the hundreds of letters he wrote to his brother, Theo, and his passion for everything moves me.
Next Friday my class is taking a trip to Arles where he lived and painted the cafes. I want to spend the week reading his letters so that when I get to Arles I can have a better idea of what he was experiencing while there.
Let me try and do a better job of expressing it.
That night of swing dancing was a little bit like an impressionist painting. A lot like an impressionist painting. It was late and dark and there was a huge big band set up on a stage at the edge of Place Hotel de Ville and all the cafes had rearranged their tables to make way for a dance floor. There were lights strung up around the dance space so it was warm. The night was warm. The people were warm. I wore heels and my black swing dress. I didn't know how legit the dancing would be, but after about 20 minutes and 3 dances, I decided I needed to rush home and put on my dance shoes.
The best way for me to show you what that night was like is to take some of Van Gogh's advice. He said one time to his friend and fellow artist, Paul Gauguin, that maybe it'd be a good idea for painters to work together on one painting, each adding what they do best to create the perfect picture. So. That night was a combination of Van Gogh's night and lighting and Renoir's people and location.
That's what swing dancing in Aix was like.
I've also been seeing a lot of the places that inspired Van Gogh. Last weekend our school took a trip to St. Remy. The assaylum where Van Gogh spent the last 2 years of his life is there. This is where he painted Starry Night. Pam, the woman leading the trip told us how to get to the room he stayed in and then how to get to the gardens he painted. All of it has been preserved so it's basically the exact same way it was when he was a patient there. I booked it to his room while everyone else wandered around the gift shop so I could have a moment alone with Vincent's spirit.
He painted the view from his window minus the metal bars.
I saw his wheat fields. His olive groves. His sky and sun and stone wall and sunflowers and mountain and cypress trees and church steeple and his room. It gave me an idea as to how much of his color really existed in the earth for the rest of us, and how much of his color only existed in his mind.
I have always loved Van Gogh and the more I learn about who he was, how he worked, and what his life was like, I appreciate him and his art more and more. I've started reading some of the hundreds of letters he wrote to his brother, Theo, and his passion for everything moves me.
Next Friday my class is taking a trip to Arles where he lived and painted the cafes. I want to spend the week reading his letters so that when I get to Arles I can have a better idea of what he was experiencing while there.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Happy 233rd
Today I went to the pool to do homework.
I haven't been to the public pool since I was 8 years old.
The high today was 91.
I didn't get any homework done, if you were really wondering but I don't think it was the pool. I think it was just me.
This is my problem:
I think of other things to do.
This has been my problem for quite some time now. It could be anything. Sometimes I clip my toe nails or watch people or send an email or go get a drink of water or who knows.
I didn't go swimming and there's something strange about the public pool.
I went with Lily and Marc.
Today's the 4th of July and it's my favorite holiday. It's not so much the fact that it's all American and I'm all American and America. America.
It's the summer. It's the cook out. It's the watermelon. Iced tea. Red plastic table cloth. Blue napkins. Cans of Coke. Baked beans. Thick slices of tomato and cheese cooked right on the burger. Sea salt and vinegar potato chips. Running in and out of the house. Water balloons and a frisbee. The back yard. Cousins. Brothers. Friends. Yelling. Barefoot. Sparklers. Lawn chairs.
Fireworks.
And this year I get to watch The Baker's Wife and eat a Noodle Box.
I haven't been to the public pool since I was 8 years old.
The high today was 91.
I didn't get any homework done, if you were really wondering but I don't think it was the pool. I think it was just me.
This is my problem:
I think of other things to do.
This has been my problem for quite some time now. It could be anything. Sometimes I clip my toe nails or watch people or send an email or go get a drink of water or who knows.
I didn't go swimming and there's something strange about the public pool.
I went with Lily and Marc.
Today's the 4th of July and it's my favorite holiday. It's not so much the fact that it's all American and I'm all American and America. America.
It's the summer. It's the cook out. It's the watermelon. Iced tea. Red plastic table cloth. Blue napkins. Cans of Coke. Baked beans. Thick slices of tomato and cheese cooked right on the burger. Sea salt and vinegar potato chips. Running in and out of the house. Water balloons and a frisbee. The back yard. Cousins. Brothers. Friends. Yelling. Barefoot. Sparklers. Lawn chairs.
Fireworks.
And this year I get to watch The Baker's Wife and eat a Noodle Box.
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