& other mistranslations

listening to: explosions in the sky
drinking: a homemade mixture of tilleul, menthe, et thé vert

we walked along the seine, past the pont des arts, along the short-cut through the institut francaise, & along the glittering red wetness of saint-germain-des-pres. after making a scene at the café, re-arranging tables & settling into the centre of the place, in the middle of everyone's way, we decided that it was all a bit too 'bo-bo' & parted ways. calogero promised to take me on a sicilian road trip this summer (he has a summer house on the beach) and oisin taught me that there is a school of thought that attempted to put some semblance of order & rhythm to the obambulating patterns of les flaneurs de paris. someone thought he could calculate the algorhythms of the wandering urchins, predict the about-face turns-of-phrase, understand why we choose the winding lanes that we do.

it was not until three o'clock in the morning that we realized it was four. (spring forward, fall back down! how could we forget?) i blew out the candles, left the four empty wine bottles outside of the door, & directed the three boys in my room -- boys i did not even realize were complete strangers to me -- down the maze-like hallway to the doorway to the stairs. (we will talk about wittgenstein, just some other time.) morning movie plans morphed into market dates & house-warming lunch picnics & the modern art museum in the afternoon.

the rain, the rain, the rain is freckling, fluckering, fn'ittttckeling, and underneath the veil of gray cloud there is a red stripe of sky at night as the sun sets later than usual. already we are making plans for drinking wine by the seine, taking the night train through the swiss alps, & expensive outdoor tea parties.