monday's the new sunday

“Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire.” - Roland Barthes

my body was bed-shaped until the sun fell down. i lolled about my room all day for the first time in months, the first time since i've been here. my afternoon was whiled away changing travel plans, researching nordic countries, reading. i kneaded my sheets in my sink, scrubbing the hot chocolate stains out. i put on clothes at seven-thirty, leaving just to buy bread & dry the bedding.

the following things make me cry in paris: the bank. the post office (like when i am homesick & have to spend thirty euro to mail christmas presents to my parents, or when i can't pick up a package waiting for me because i didn't bring my passport, or when i forget the mail on the weighing desk). waiting for the bus at night during the metro strikes. shoe shopping (i have too-big-feet & shoes are too-expensive).

the following things are not illegal in paris: peeing on the streets. drinking in public. smoking on the metro platforms. child & public pornography. teenage drinking.