In Nice, I loved seeing how excusing away lackadasiness by attributing it to the day of the week persisted, even on the other side of the world. No day was exempt: lundi, mardi, mercredi, jeudi, vendredi… However, lundi was a common one.
I was recently having brunch with a friend who also spent the semester abroad, and we have come to a common experience, being back at school. That being the frequent reminders of memories or (mis)adventures abroad, but they often are of events so mundane to be unworthy of mention in the conversation (and there is also an element of doubting the interest of the other party present). Really, how interesting would it be to tell you, “Oh, this reminds me of when Jess and I went to the supermarket in Aix-En-Provence. We were looking for ground turkey. We bought some vegetables as well, and in France you have to weigh and print out a price label before taking them to the cashier. I learned that in Lyon when we stopped at FanPrix or Petit Casino to pick up groceries for the Mexican dinner Enrique directed and prepared.”
My mind wanders and often leaps chasms others would consider insurmountable. But in fact, there is a way across…though it might involve climbing up from the bottom with the help of your friendly neighborhood king disguised as a llama.
Following is a scan of a random page I scribbled out at work one day (work involves waiting for people who need help, and while I wait I can do homework or other things). It’s (surprisingly) legibile, but I’ll transcribe it beneath as well.
I overestimated the time it would take to read two essays and am now faced with 50 remaioning minutes and only blank pages to amuse.
This pen forms clumps and inopportune but artistic moments. It gives lends focal points of interest to otherwise plain and uninspiring text. But occassionally the handwriting tells a story too, in this case one of uncharacteristic attention to form, line and spacing.
Has there been a conclusion on the inclusion of Oxford commas?
The libraries of Oban and Aberystwyth stand out in my mind, but blur together into a single library on the Atlantic coast, sending byte after byte across the space and linking me to home. In Aberystwyth – even at the time – the library down the street from the U-District Farmer’s Market drifts into memory. And the community center, the dance classrooms and storytime (I was on th enews, perhaps for a brief moment), the playground whose rings failed to dispel the raindrops but had no trouble letting go of me.
Running with Scissors or Tuck Everlasting
Only half a page later and two centimeters of ink have leaked from the tube and into lines and shapes that mean nothing to Danny’s grandmother in Thailand.
Alora – is my favorite Italian word even in the dictionary?
Fifteen minutes have thusly passed – not that I’m watching the clock in anticipation of the moment Annastasia arrives and sets me loose to forget I have a car this year and instead walk the mile back to my house so I have then two hours before Pilates.
Somehow Wednesday is already busy. And Thursday. And still I must find time to interview for my yearbook story on Men’s Swimming. All gets done in the end and on time. I hereby resolve, upon completeion of said interviews, to write the 300 word story that must then follow. Shouldn’t be hard.
That was 300 there.