harissa

i was going to meet P tonight, for sex, but a sore throat told me not to. i suggest sunday instead. his messages are full of txt speak, so i struggle to comprehend. during the week it seemed as though he said he stabbed his boss, but he didn't.

it's friday night and i thought about going to see a film. but i lay on the couch and realise i don't need to, that i can go to bed early. that i can finish watching Les Parapluies de Cherbourg.

i made a morrocan tajine with plenty of garlic and harissa. now i'm sitting at the kitchen bench sweating through every pore. the room feels like a sauna, which is great. i flood myself with lemon water and know that this'll make me better tomorrow. i listen to this:



R sent me this link and i can't stop playing it. it makes 'heart of glass' into a whole new text; melancholic and dreamy. and i guess being here, being pleasantly alone, makes the song all the more poignant. there is nothing to disrupt the attention i give to this song and the feelings it evokes.

four more days, four more nights. before i know it i'm back, working, studying, falling into the same old stresses. as always, i think i've transcended my demons. i think that being away gives me a new outlook on what i'm doing in sydney. but life will get in the way, of course.

D stays tomorrow night, so i hope to be fit and slept and energetic in case we go out for dinner and drinks, which is likely. he'll speak to me in french and i'll not understand. i'll try to play the game only to get frustrated and give up. it's easier to bumble my way through french with strangers than people like D, because what we have to say requires a broader vocabulary. one day, with him and all the others, i hope to express things bilingually. and with two languages, more can be said.

texto

a sad parisian writes a text message.

"You seem to be what we call in french quelqu'un de bien. I wish you a very sweet night."

a sad non-parisian finds comfort in the words of a stranger. yet again.

the last three paragraphs

[...]

Last night we’re jumping between French and English. It seems we now have rules. If one says something in French, the other will respond in French, and this will continue until we hit a wall and have to explain something in English. You’re a brilliant teacher, patient and proud. This is another reason you’ll be missed.

I’ll learn French for you. One day we can talk differently and I’ll not have to say ‘quoi?’

You told me what to say when I go to the phone shop, and how to ask for credit. I have little recollection of these words, but I must go there this morning. You offered to come with me, but I know you’re busy, and I know it’s best for me to do these things alone. But my head is still throbbing, so I think I’ll wait a little longer. I just can’t text M back, I suppose, but that’s okay. I don’t even know if I want to see him. I don’t know much about anything, right now. I know I’m hungry and in need of coffee. I know I’d like croissants, but that would require me leaving the apartment. I know that this won’t happen. Stale brioche will have to suffice.