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!