Always

Although the following ramblings constitute the first post of 2011, I should specify I wrote them in December.

I saw the sweetest thing the other day, while hunting for chocolat bio in a supermarket in Le Marais - a guy in his late twenties perhaps grabbed a pack of menstrual pads from a very famous mark. He was all alone, from what I could tell (no girlfriend-buffer when paying at the checkout), and so he's either a transsexual or a very nice boyfriend (I obviously went with option no 2, being the helpless romantic all cats are, deep deep down... somewhere... when nobody's looking... Yeah.). Am I too jaded if I consider such a gesture hors du commun?

A few days later...
I'm listening to Kings of Leon. More jaded than ever, albeit melancholically hopeful. I've received a few messages from family'n'friends, holidays and all - I've yet to respond, but this simple fact (man, who hasn't seen or forgotten "You've Got Mail"? one of the must movies , between Ryan, Hanks and the ever eluding, but existent - somewhere - perfect love...), of being the recipient of some mail, gives me this warm feeling spreading from my stomach upwards.

So now I'm responding with equally good wishes and merry stuff - I usually give them the holy three, good health, love and joy; as far as Lenu is concerned, the first thing that comes to mind and should be intended for her is love, I'm wishing her all the in the world, as it is the one thing she looked for and never found, I'm afraid. Gosh, I'm so cheerless, I'm gonna hafta agree with Waits'n'Murphy on Xmas spirit - "The bottle is empty
The sleigh has a flat
The stripper in my bed is ugly and fat
Her tassels are tangled and what's worse
My jingle won't jangle "

And to keep up with stolen lines, a quote from Le Placard by Francis Veber, no copyright infringement intended.

Belone : Le chat est parti.
Pignon : Où ça ?
Belone : Je sais pas, il m´a pas laissé d´adresse !
(cf. http://www.replikultes.net/films/fiches/528/le_placard/informations/#content)

So yeah, The Chat is gone without leaving an adress... but Paris isn't so big. If one walks long enough, one can end up in the same streets.

Knocking over tea cups (Miscellanea, but isn't everything?)

x
I really am. All the damn time. And glasses, cutlery, plates, clothes, food, drinks, bref, various household objects and materials. Yes, I really am that inattentive. But hey, a cat is forgiven for anything it does, it's a royal prerogative humans respected for millennia.

A few days later...
My latest exploit was knocking over a lamp. A very nice, plum-coloured lamp. I regreted it for a moment there. It doesn't work anymore and I'll soon exile it to the garbage can. I should hurry because I'm actually keeping it hidden from my boss, to whom it belonged. This is how I came to use a little light one can attach to one's forhead, thus recreating the famous image of the light bulb going on. Now if I'd actually do smth with it...

At times, quite often in fact, when I'm listening to really nice music, I've got this craving, this restlessness in my heart or in the prideful part of my mind, to do smth with my hands, maybe a picture, maybe some words. It doesn't usually works, as I am regularly doing smth else or am too caught up in reading. Except now. Well, that ends it, I'm going back to reading. See ya in a few, I think I'll finish and post this tonight.

About the picture - it's with a really cool hat one cannot see in the photo. I have some other shoots with me in them, but I don't like the way my nose stands up in them. Metaphorically, it's not actually too up-turned. Anyhoo, this reminds me of a show I caught some glimpses of today on a French television channel, about aesthetical surgery. There was this little girl of fifteen that hated her chin and wanted it modified. Apparently this type of surgery is very popular with girls from 15 or 16 to 24. Beyond the fake aspect such things suppose, how can one imagine it in relation to children, how did children came to this. I'm on a rethorical strike here, don't bother to answer. I'm just flabbergasted. And so old.

And now for the argumentative part - medically speaking, bones aren't even ready for this kind of intervention before the age of 18 or so. The speakers kept rambling about self-image and its improvement, about confidence and such. Is the easy way out really a source of self-confidence or rather a temporary solution for a deeper lack of satisfaction? Control and the way to take it had been mentioned and this is perhaps a better angle from which one can see things. The train of thought goes thus perhaps - I'm taking control of my body, therefore of my life. Only one doesn't consider then external actions and reactions, accidents or purposeful incidences that shape one. Control is hardly attainable.
As for the way I see it for myself, I wouldn't modify my body beyond its natural capacity (that is, diet, gymnastics, empirical products of as biological an origin as possible). The innate data shaped me as well and keep on doing it, and I can't see it as fair that it should get modified just for the sake of an image I'd give to the world. Where would I be then, in a body that wouldn't be mine afterwards? How could I lie and pretend this is me?

Hm, I am rambling as well. Maybe this isn't really my cup of tea.
The Chat graciously laps at some spilt coffee, and watches the cup go round and round. He is also living on borrowed time, without a thought for tomorrow, and when in doubt, it bonks it.

Long time, no writing

Ah well, that's to be expected from me. I'm such a procrastinator, and a lazy, lazy one at that. I love to sleep and I love to waste time and day-dream and do nothing with my life, despite all declarations to the contrary.

Anyhow, it may be that tomorrow is a day for celebration, some would say, or just this lost moment of time, or an auditive scene I witnessed yesterday - whatever it is, it has me writing a bit again.

So yeah, yesterday... I was sent to retrieve a stepladder from my boss' neighbour. The neighbour - a lady in her forties, maybe, who lives with her mother and perhaps her son or sons - was quite polite and helpful, ready to lend the said object to my often charming boss (that is, when she doesn't scream her head off over something I or someone else did or did not do). Which didn't go over well with the mother - just when the lady neighbour was ready to pass me stepladder, a squeaky, though loud voice claim it beacause the owner of the voice wanted to hang curtains. There were sounds of a little fight, more screams, more claims on the stepladder and the reiterated affirmation of the wish to hung curtains. Then there could be heard the noises of little steps hurrying away with what was likely the object of all these negociations. I was asked to return in a quarter of an hour and blessed with an endearment term by the nice neighbour lady.

Of course I have a series of stupid, excessively romantic, impossbile notions for my life. Of course I'll wake up the same tomorrow. Why bother and why oh why keep on hoping. It's an impulse just as inexplicable and irresistible as, say, the soulmates one finds in books only. Wishful, dreamy, farway look to be inserted here.

It's ugly in Paris today. Grey and muted. Not very cold. Just another day after another day before another day.

The Chat mutters to itself - "Trop peu d'argent, trop de gueule". A statement future generations will spend many a night meditating upon.