Tottering down the little hill to the little Shopi where I buy my lunch everyday that I am in Limoges, the grass threw spores up at me and invaded my ldap-obsessed trance.
So good. The grass here smells so fucking good.
Skipping, quite literally, and looking very silly in corporate attire, into the store, cashier lady said hello and asked where I'd bought my blouse. This morning, Marie had asked the same thing.
In e-mail, I've spoken to both Steven and Kaff about fashion.
Cf, dear gods, you can't let me become a clothes-whore like you, the aesthete/anti-aesthete balance in the world will be upset.
It's a white blouse, tight and crossed over between the breasts, with thick weave over the arms that conceal my tattoos the way most light-coloured shirts never do.
I own one white bra to wear with it, satin all soft the way they were in style when I was in high school.
I don't wear it enough for it to have worn out the way all the black or red or turquoise, ones do.
I miss satin lingerie. This new funky-texture stuff is comfortable on the inside, but it's just not the same when you run your hands over them before you've gotten dressed and modified-down your behaviour towards the outside world.
And it's not just the grass, here. It's the singing.
Antoine, the pretty blonde hiking one who sings in a punk band that's looking for a second singer (funny how some situations happen in every city), sang to me at lunchtime when conversations turned to television and he saw me tune out.
"C'est la grosse bitte � Dudule..."
And everyone joined in.
Their is a different version than the one I know, but still about Dudule and his massive appendage, but the melody is even sweeter, and the lyrics more raunchy.
And the women sang right along, at the dinner table, in rousing beautiful chorus just as exuberant as the uptight bastards in Paris would have been upset.
Les Limougeos, I love you. You with your terrine de champignons in avocado hearts, you with your pighead salad (there really was a recognizeable pig's head), you with your rolling hills that smell of sheer joy, you with your open-minded maniacs and the way you do not crush the life from them after age 7.
This weekend everyone suddenly has taken me up on my offer of appartment loan, Alexe's friend who's in town until Tuesday, and Annik who I rather dislike but who needs a place to stay for two weeks and came to me for help.
It should be interesting. The only thing in my fridge is jam, map-o-spread, and that jar of mayonnaise that I haven't used since I moved in here.
And work. So much work to do this weekend.
And Liz, Liz might be here Monday, we've been trying to hook up outside the ski team for three years now, and no matter what, are never, ever in the same town.
Liz, the single strongest woman that I've ever met. Liz, who spent half of last week in Tokyo, isn't sure where she'll be next week, climbed Everest for New Year's 2000 and never begs for attention.
Sometimes I wish I could ask her if she's ever afraid like I am, ever so terribly lonely, or if I need to overcome both of those emotions the way I out-rationalized jealousy and whatever else was bred into my confused little head in high school.
To have her strength. To not feel the cold on the mornings when I don't have time to masturbate myself to afterglow.
Or maybe she just remembers the grass spores on the days that she is stuck in Paris and cannot smell them.
I need to work on my olfactory memory.
Maybe I need a cleaner nose. If only someone could help me... ;)
The strangest thing, though, is that of all the rampant quiz takers in the universe, nobody, but nobody, e-mailed me to tell me what sexual position they are.
What a bunch of missionaries, the lot of 'em. You. Uh...
Right.
Compile! Compile!
(oh, and apparently France JUST lost at football. I mean soccer. That sport there that makes everybody here very angry. I learned something about that. Whatever you do, don't suggest they pay attention to REAL sports like, y'know, hockey... Apparently they don't like dat much.)
C'est la grosse bitte � Dudule... J'la prends, j'la suce, elle m'enc...