hallo

This is what I look like in Berlin.

This is what my beautiful hostess looks like.

This is what I like to look at.

paid vacation, still the sweetest thing ever

OKay, so recently it was made known to me that I can get unemlpoyment from the French government after six months of working there...and my contract is for seven months. My roomy is something of an international swindler, and I guess unemployment is like 600 € a month or something like that...

So, the new plan is to move in to my friend´s place for five or six weeks in April/May. Learn German in some kind of psychotic trial by fire. I can´t even believe how cheap it is here. And Cartier cigarettes and secondhand stores eveywhere and crazy summer late night partying, making art, writing, getting fucked up, hanging out with Liana and her cool roomie...

The plan was to be back in MT for my brother´s graduation. Which is at the beginning of the month-ish. Buuuut....god, if I get a crack at staying in Berlin in the weird anti-room/carpet cave that is currently laying vacant, taunting me in Liana´s apt...shiiiit.

I seriously thought I correctly burned those photos onto a disk, but no such luck. Soon. Maybe I´ll do something blogworthy tonight or tomarrs. Hope so. Need to shop, go out, get laid, etc.

The pressure is mercifully off for right now to do everything in Berlin. I can just enjoy a relaxing fun vacation and then move here and do everything then. Praise.

the berlin post

Okay, so, I made it to Berlin surprisingly free of total fawking meltdown. Surprising because it was four hours from Morlaix to Paris and then TWELVE hours from Paris to Berlin. Ouch! By an unknown miracle brought to you by the sweet baby jesus, I snagged about four hours of sleep and woke up right outside of Berlin. Last time I came, I instantly got lost, did not miraculously learn German instantly and my mean bus driver yelled and me. And yes, I called my mutha, fuckfaces. Twas no good.

But my lovelz friend Liana came and rescued me from the train station. Yeah! And everything has been magical ever since. Berlin is way more gorgeous than I remember. Which may be connected to the fact I came in January, when things like `going outside for longer than ten minutes` and `sunshine` were überverboten. Pictures coming soon, swears to yalls that it`s worth the wait.

This time around, I`m flipflopping all over Prenzlauerberg in East Berlin, way more in the thick of things. The ungodly hot German boys I remember so well are popping out of die woodwork more and more, much to my endless joy. And I have at last been reunited with my weeeeeeeeeeeed, which makes my heart swell beyond its pettz capacity. YAY!

other things: Berlin has CARTIER motherfucking CIGARETTES. And they have menthols, probably the most joy-rending combination there can be for my heart. It´s weird to be thrust back into communicative uselessness once more, but try as I might speaking French in place of German has not really been fruitful yet.

Will deliver news as it unfolds and the pictures shall be glorious and soon. I believe the alarm bell within me that announces when it is time to eat arab food again has just gone off. bless berlin and its abundant, hardon-causing cheapness.

continuing the rambling tale of this weekend

Argh, I don't even know if I'm ready to talk about it yet. I got to actually SPEAK to Michael Chabon, to ask him a question that had been burning haplessly within...

I got to dine with writers and fancy internationally literary journalist types...which was as sweet as it was free. Thanks to my old mate Debra Earling for being there, for having coattails to be so eagerly and haphazardly ridden...

But, really, almost everything that happens in Paris, no matter how extraordinary is obscured by the solitude I feel there. This time, I was without traveling companions, I wasn't staying with my ex-host family...I dunno, it magnified the feelings of solitude I'm so inclined to already, which are already instantly magnified upon entering Paris.

I got drunk every night, such was my strange freewheeling despair.

I skipped out on the closing night dinner, even though I could have done way more elbow-rubbing with the crème de la crème all night long, since EVERYONE would have been there. I don't know why. I just felt like I couldn't deal with tagging along, trying to make an evening where I would be politely tolerated and placated into something more meaningful. I just couldn't do it, even though the first dinner was actually really great. Oh yeah, did I mention I met .Alfred, the guy mentioned at the bottom of this story? Yeah, I did. He's crazy as hell. He was in like every fawking newspaper in France. I sat across from him, tried to respect him and his mission, but found this difficult to do with what an enormous asshole he was being.

I got to go to an 'Hour with Michael Cunningham' which was probably the highlight. He was so...unpretentious. Charming. He talked about music and listening to it constantly while writing, when there are so many people that openly decry it. He talked about not really being able to understand our potential to understand the minds of others...I really loved what he said, wished I had memorized it like a good fanboy. He mentioned something about listening to hot modern music, which lead me to a really stupid question I shan't repeat, but he was sweet about it. Anyway, he was the good one.

For everyone else...it's hard for me to accept that writers are real. I almost want them to be these beautiful robots or hermits - all they do is write, they don't globetrot and congratulate themselves and act catty amongst themselves. I should have known that no matter what, I would leave slightly scarred by the often gaping flaws that exist in such great writers. Again, I learn that good artistry says nothing about the character of the artist, about what kind of person they really are. But I always want to believe it does...

Lordy, how did I get on this? Ever since I've been back in Morlaix, my happiness has been reborn, if not slightly obscured by total hacking-cough-stuffed-nose ickiness. I just found out that my trip to Berlin, which begins FRIDAY can be extended, since I don't have to be back at school until fawking Thursday the goddamned fourth! My joy is without measure.

Anyway, just got taken out to a lovely lunch by a prof at my school. We talked about the region, writing, books, dreams...it was sweet. I had a salad with warm goat cheese and bacon that was the fawking bomb.

Now, I'm going to crawl in bed and rest and read my sickness away, pausing for regular ingestion of delicious soup. Because if I am not well by Friday I am FUCKED, because I have to ride the train all night on Friday night and odds are against me sleeping for any of it. Also, the chilly embrace of Berlin is not known for making ones sickness disappear. No, no. Au contraire, mon frère!

paris, toujours

Let's start with last night, shall we? In the spirit of eschewing chronology, let's first deal with how I got mysteriously hellbent on getting wasted. I decided to discard all good sense in this hollow quest, and thought it would be superneat if I drank six beers and a bottle of wine that I ended up drinking in about twenty or thirty minutes. Noooooooooo! But yes. I think my hostel roomie slept through my vomituitous fits. Such purple puke reminds me of secret pukings at chez Tabs and Nettie, back in the bloom of my youth. Ew. I should know better.

But, I'm in Paris, and the reverie was such that I had no other choice. Likely story, hmmm? I wandered into my old haunt on the Quai de Saint-Michel, the Irish pub of yore. My old people (adorable retired American professors) were not in attendance, so I downed my pint by my lonesome and got to writing a ten page letter to my darling friend Nicole. I think the combination of relating my state of being, ie dying from the lack of my little American loves, and the being in Paris completely on my own thing left me no choice but to get utterly 'housed.

Said letter shall be delivered by Debra Earling, a creative writing prof at the old alma mater and patron to aforementioned Nicole, one of our school's buddingest genie-asses. She is here for the Festival America thing I have mentioned, day one of which I attended today.

In short: yes, Michael Chabon is THAT FUCKING DREAMY; Donna Tartt is short and hot; they both signed my books; I am realizing that my continual deference to the French is a by-product of their ability to speak a language that frequently vexes me, and that they are in fact just as stupid as Americans in many instances; aaaaaaaaaand that semi-wraps it up.

I'm dining with Deb and any possible combination of A, B and C list litterati this very evening. Exciting! Yes, hopefully.

I have been tragically hung over most of today, but let it be a reminder that drinking to excess does not have to be the same as drinking with blind stupidity.

I spent most of this morning asking after headache-be-gones and telling people not to go to the fucking Louvre for fucks sake. But the sheer quantity of American tourists that are so hell-bent on satisfying the stupid little checklist (Eiffel Tower? Check. Spit on my a French person? Check.) that trying to tell them about Musee D'Orsay, etc. is nearly impossible. Not to mention pointless. These are the same people that think spending two days in a place leaves a goodly amount of time to appreciate their respective wonders. Oi.

Being back in Paris is dreamy as hell. I sort of can't believe I didn't jump at the chance to switch schools and be an assistant here, but there is no fucking way I could handle it. I would never work, I would never have money, it would be folly to say the very least. But...oh, well, yall know by now I'm obsessed with the place.

I met fellow blogger/assistant Nat in the wilds of Montmartre, the suckiness of which cannot be argued with, but luckily, he knew a sweet-ass bar in the area. He's really cool, but even if I tricked him into being my new best friend, I don't think he even has enough floor for me to stay on.

Need to make my way back to the festivities, even though Michael brought his wife along, make seduction totally impossible. Unless she's into that kind of thing. Whatevs. Please excuse the stunning lack of structure in my thoughts at this moment.

how was your day, dear?

Fine, thanks. It's a huge relief for me to have something new to write about mere hours after having composed such an ode to ennui.

I started working on a new story, one which skips merrily between the ill-guarded borders of lucidity and freewheeling, crazytown-dwelling self-indulgence. I'm enjoying it to little pieces; it's a story about a boy who is exhibits symptoms of serious illness, only to see them disappear. Not as dark as it sounds, promise! I'm loving it, and feel an immense relief re: me writing again. I went through a huge period of inactivity this summer, but was too depressed to write anything other than this blog. Mercifully, for myself and the ragtag readership, that time ended and so did my depression.

Then, last night my dreams were crazy as helllllllll. First, I made some kind of awkward reconnection with the man whose role as my eighth grade history teacher gave birth to the certainty of my gayosity, not to mention the numerous masturbatory fantasies. I'll spare you. I don't really remember what his role in the dream was, just wanted to take a trip down memory lane. Damn, was he fine, though. And apparently single now. Where's my rolodex, yo? Anyway.

Second part of the dream: my parents' house was being assailed by a pair of telepathic deer. My mom saw them coming up the stairs and started screaming like a madwoman. I locked myself in my father's guncloset (yes, he has one, my parents live in fawking Montana). I could still feel them, invading my mind, certain that they would kill my shit.

For those of you who are giggling at the idea of murderous deer, I'm pretty sure that there are loads of deer on the Animals Gone Wild shows of Fox, or whatevs such programmes are called. Lord knows I don't watch them. And if you hit one of those suckers on the highway, you better hope they just destroy your care, instead of stamping through your windshield and trampling you until you are SO DEAD!

Yeah. Moving on. I tought a class of design students today, who are all between 19-21 and let me just say...forgive me blogger, for I am having so many impure thoughts about this lot. Lordy be. Luckily, I'm normally working with gross little fifteen year olds, who are too annoying and nasty to be hot, let alone the fact that they are fifteen and that would be gross as hell. There are lots of hotties in this class, trust. But there was one guy in the class (which mercifully/tragically I'm only subbing in for two weeks) that has the most beautiful face. Blue eyes, thick lips, glasses (yes, I think glasses are sexy as fuck), who was watching me throughout the hour...um. Fuck. Apparently, he lives in the dormitory, but I haven't seen him around. And trust me, y'alls, I would have noticed. Also, I have to make friends with one of them so I can get un vendeur des drogues français. Word. You know what I mean.

Then finally, I gave my first aggravated peptalk to my class of fifteen year olds today. Afterward, I explained to them what a pep talk was through exaggerated gestures and reference to Mike Tyson. It felt good to yell at a bunch of French kids, contrary to what I would have expected. I mean, it's a little like Dangerous Minds, what with them being on all those wacky drugs and all. Seriously. At least one third of this school is stoned all the time. Bless their little hearts.

Okay, I think that covers it. Stay tuned for updates on the exciting world of the French laundromat, which must be visited approximately toute fucking suite.

escape from bretagne

The assistants and I escaped smalltown life to hightail it to Brest, one of a handful of cityish escapes in Bretagne. We partied Friday night / Saturday morning away with other assistants we met at our orientation (which for the record, was a bust that would have been better off just being a mixer).

Fun, fun, fun - chatted the night away about all things indierock and hahaha aren't the French silly. It was lovely to be around so many drunk anglophones.

Saturday was shopping and ignoring hangovers, and I walked away with the new Interpol (finally!), a DVD of Romancing the Stone and a Bowie triple pack (Diamond Dogs, Aladin Sane and Hunky Dory). Also made requisite trips to shopping hotspots H & M and Zara.

I didn't leave much of my internet café budget, so this shall remain mercifully brief.

Trying to figure out if I will be able to go to Berlin for Toussaint vacation (10/23 - 11/1) because I may not be fucking allowed to leave the country yet. Comment dit-on ARGH en françcais?

Jetting off to Paris this weekend to catch a slew of American litterati in Vincennes. Shall be returning there for the Interpol show on 11/19, godblessthem for having such a lengthy eurotour, but who could blame them?

Have been struck by random, unexplained fits of melancholy at the fucking weirdest times. I hope it passes. I think I just miss my people like crazy. You know who you are.

Just finished rereading One Hundred Years of Solitude. It is still the best fucking book ever.

from bretagne

New best thing in the world: avocados with lemon juice and soy sauce. It tastes like sushi minus the rice and fish. Because, you know, sometimes there's avocado too. Of course. Did you know that the French word for avocado, avocat, is the same word as lawyer? Charming, non?

Speaking of charming, I went to a place called Ile Callotte, which only becomes accessible during low tide. Unbelievably gorgeous. Scattered houses still exist on its rocky cliffs. The sea wind blasted against my face and the sun made one of those unexpected cameos that illuminated everything perfectly. Of course there was a cute little semi-abandonned church, but the churches of France have become nearly intolerable to me, such has my overexposure been. Anyway, we hiked all over the island, hoofed it back across the causeway before the tide stranded us and hitch-hiked back (I'm only bragging because it was my first time).

Hitch hiking seems to be a frequent, safe practice in these parts - I'm tempted to do it all the time, just to see where I end up. And perform the exuberant act of taunting death (of course).

I wish I had more to report. My town is very boring, and I am just coming off the serial-drunk binge that defines one's first week in a French town. My current state of mind could be described as sexistentialistic - that is to say, wracked with hidden despair over the distance I have traveled between my actions and my desires. Right now; for example, I'm incredibly horny, but have come to realize that my only recourse is masturbation because I am obviously. Never. Having. Sex. Again.

Reading One Hundred Years of Solitude (again). Tonight, I'm going to do some writing on a new story that is primarily motivated my Angela Carter and Marquez - there are far worse influences. Maybe everyone that has read the one hasn't read the other, so it'll all work out in the end. Maybe I'll drink a bottle of wine. It's calling my name.

P.S. Did I ever tell you that while my mom went to a funeral when I was four or five, my dad took my bro and I to Reno with his best friend. When she returned, we were smoking impromptu cigars (markers) that we had used to draw on moustaches and were playing poker. Allegedly, I told my mom that the most important thing to do in a new town is find a good liquor store. One of the fave tales of my childhood.

P.P.S. Speaking of oblivion, it's killing me inside to have gone this long without having partaken of the evil weed. I feel so painfully clear. I need my anti-psychotic, like, stat.