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.