My life would be exponentially better with a dog in it. I get why people like cats, I do, but dogs... dogs just kill me.

sunday

2010-10-11T01:49:00.002+02:00

Tonight, my stomach is lined in a coat of warm potato leek soup and my throat is a fine combination of earl grey infused hot chocolate and ginger tea. Walking, I turned into several delis and markets to meet strange looks when I asked for leeks. How do I describe something that is so similar and yet so set apart? Green, partially white, leaves spreading, thickly stemmed, not quite scallion, an appearance of celery. Later, I stood, dumbfounded, trying to distinguish between cilantro and parsley merely by sight. Both were so familiar to me, I could not bridge the distance without furtively breathing in. I felt like someone who had never been to a supermarket; not quite sure if I should ask where they stocked butter. Perhaps Rue de Lévis lingers. Grocery shopping in France was truly delightful. One street lined with a boucherie, fromagerie, a multitude of boulangeries, two wine shops, and an ample amount of fruit and vegetable stalls. The man who sweetly gave me extra poultry, the grocer who always handed me the most succulent, mouth-watering mangoes, the fromager who encouraged me to try cheeses that were just a little older than I was accustomed to, and the dears who never appeared to judge how frequently I popped in for a canelé (or two). If I one day go missing, I guess you'll know where to find me. Mango and monaco in hand. Luckily, I've enough grenadine to relive (perhaps less wildly, less recklessly) those short, rose colored days life afforded me in Paris.

Also, it makes me chuckle how little this has to do with anything related to The Graduate.

2010-07-23T01:55:00.004+02:00

friday

2010-07-16T17:41:00.000+02:00

Currently making egg salad sandwiches, Julia's quiche aux epinards, homemade ginger ale, and iced earl grey tea for tomorrow's festivities. I've too many lists running through my head and my oldest dress and slip are hanging in delicate balance from my armoire. To say I'm excited is just one of those understatements I can't get fully behind. I should be shining my shoes or setting my hair, but in reality, my brown mop is a mess, I'm wearing a Seinfeld t-shirt, and the only thing I can think about is whether or not to wear flowers from the garden in my hair or a simple pearl clip. If you have the chance to make it out to Governor's Island tomorrow, please don't miss it! I hope to see you on the lawn tomorrow!

In the meantime, here are a few photographs from a lovely late afternoon I spent on my roof, reading, eating a mango popsicle, and napping in the dipping sun.

tuesday

2010-07-14T03:51:00.004+02:00

Vien, one day I will return to you!
Un jour, je reviendrai.

monday

2010-07-12T20:14:00.002+02:00

Coffee ice cream. Vegan cake batter soft serve. Soy cherry chocolate chip. Earl grey tea ice cream. Banana milkshakes. Pistachio gelato and lemon sorbet. Trader Joe's mango popsicles. Other than beverages and avocados, various forms of churned cream have been my weapon of choice against the heat. Summer is in full swing. There are free summer concerts (I refuse to miss Best Coast or Dr. Dog), free outdoor movies (Bryant Park, Brooklyn Bridge, Riverside Park), jazz age picnics (ce-weekend!), Bastille Day celebrations (Smith Street, this Sunday!), afternoons spent napping in Prospect Park, free Tuesdays spent at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, evenings spent on rooftops, mornings often spent at flea markets. Sure, I have terribly skinned knees and bruises dotting my legs in heavy constellations, mosquito bites on top of fading mosquito bites, and a hefty closet brimming over with dirty laundry. Yet there are plenty of things to look forward to (peach picking in North Carolina, going home to California for a brief sojourn, lake-swimming, weekly poetry club meetings, bi-weekly book club get-togethers, and a wealth of double features). Plenty of good days to come.

thursday

2010-07-08T19:34:00.002+02:00

Nothing of real worth to say. These days I'm spending most of my time hiding in Film Forum, polishing off jars and jars and jars of salsa, reading on the roof, humming "scene d'amour" from Vertigo, and falling in and out of sleep at various branches of the NYPL. In short, trying my best to find free air conditioning.

2010-06-10T18:32:00.003+02:00

Trying to make the new home feel like home. Art nouveau armoires help. Living with lovely ladies especially helps. Building a cafe au lait bowl collection makes late-night-ice-cream-and-A-Room-With-A-View-watching much more enjoyable. And a certain white-deaf-feral kitten named Beethoven has been curin' my achin' heart while I eat in the garden. My basil is already coming into its own, wedged between large leaves of broccoli and branches of oregano. Mulberries are ready for the pickin' and jammin'. I'm just counting down the days until I have a desk fit for writing, an armchair fit for reading, and many lamps, lights, and candles for lazing.

2010-03-07T13:59:00.004+01:00

I alternate between having too much and too little to say. Today there are too many ideas, memories, and worries walking around in my mind- yet I can think of no proper method to express these walking thoughts. I've just finished Bluets by Maggie Nelson, published by Wave Books. I miss the old church of St. Mark's, the blanketed walls of the Poetry Project. The knee-touching crampedness of the Lillian Vernon House. Monday nights huddled in the KGB Bar (March 29th is not to be missed, if you can swing it). J.Ashbery and J.Gilbert in grand lecture halls, light bulbs glimmering. I am homesick for language above all things. My French is not terrible, but to go weeks without being able to express my thoughts in the exact manner I should like to express them has been the most trying hardship of all. Need I even mention how tuffed I am to have missed C.K. Williams? Sharon Olds? A literary conference on Wallace Stevens? Bof, mes amis, bof!

monday

2010-03-01T23:40:00.010+01:00

I realize I run the risk of sounding incredibly, if not entirely, crazy. I came to Paris to find Jean-Pierre Léaud. My love affair (of sorts) began seven years ago when I saved up enough money to buy my own copy of the Adventures of Antoine Doinel from Criterion. I remember the box set being the most expensive thing I had ever purchased by myself. To this day, it remains among my most prized possessions. It's hardly rare, easily replaceable, and perhaps a bit expected, but it would also be one of the first things I would stuff into my time capsule. I don't know why I've been so reluctant to pen these thoughts. David Bordwell and Cinemania slightly come to my aid in their observances of the possessiveness that occasionally comes along with cinephilia. There is a fine line between obsession and possession that one feels one may naturally cross after so many viewings and enough research. Today, sitting in the third row in a theater in the Latin Quarter, I felt my stomach flip-flop as Fred Astaire danced Ginger Rogers, Edward Everett Horton, and himself to sleep in Top Hat. It was a scene I, myself, have fallen asleep to many-a-night. I remember going to a Busby Berkeley double feature with D. what might have been a year ago and watching with surprise as she fell asleep during a few numbers and most of the boring parts (I'll never understand why Ruby Keeler got those parts instead of Ginger Rogers). She cleverly explained that when she woke up before the grand finale, she was paying the highest compliment to Berkeley- starting with his grandiose dreams and ending with her own. Here's to dreaming, folks.

RECOMMENDED VIEWING:
Antoine et Colette, La Maman et la Putain, Le Père Noël a les yeux bleus,
Le Départ, Les Deux Anglaises et le continent, La Nuit Américaine,
Et là-bas, quelle heure est-il?, Out 1: Noli me tangere, Porcile

wednesday

2010-02-24T20:41:00.003+01:00

Haven't much to say. I'm losing track of days. Dreaming of trips to Ireland, Scotland, the green places. Mussels in Bruxelles. Train rides from Vienna to Budapest. Summer barbecues beginning and ending with watermelon. Sleeping with the windows open. Drinking earl grey iced tea every day. Returning to Dead Horse Bay. Descartes would never approve of all of this dreaming.

wednesday

2010-02-17T21:27:00.003+01:00

tuesday

2010-02-16T01:04:00.001+01:00

For the lovely lady league.

2009-12-09T04:22:00.000+01:00

Françoise Sagan. It should be obvious why I read her books, no? And I'm not even sharing my favorite photographs of her zipping away in her beloved Astor Martin or Jaguar (the mere mention of a Jag XK 140 makes my ears prick up and my mouth water). Any woman who spends her first novel's check on a delicious sports car is more than okay in my book. I should be choosing my words carefully tonight, but instead I am sucking on apricots in my plaid flannel pajamas, listening to All Things Must Pass (this is my jam), trying to decide what I will wear to this and my dear's shipwreck Titanic themed birthday party. I have the weighty choice between dressing as first class or steerage. Hoom hum as those dear Ents say.

Ever since I went to Carnegie Hall to listen to Liszt & Schubert this Friday past, I have been decadently overdressed. At first, I felt sheepish taking off my coat to see everyone in the balcony draped in cotton and blue jeans. During the intermission, I snuck down to the parquet and felt less out of place as elegant men held their hats to their breast and the woman glanced searchingly into the depths of their glasses of champagne. Alas, I had to return to my seat with my bubbly ginger ale in hand and lack of opera glasses in the other. I suppose if I truly wanted to restore old-world elegance to Carnegie's good name, I would have had the forbearance to bring opera glasses or a monocle. Foiled, yet again!

thursday

2009-12-04T03:10:00.000+01:00

Thursday afternoon stroll after class and after very little sleep...

and finally, some UDP [Ugly Duckling Presse] love...