Missing limbs

It's such a beautiful day today.

My ex made a very good observation - he said it's strange that I always look up to check if the skies are still there. A bit like Asterix's fellow-villagers, who feared that the sky may fall on their heads at any time.

I guess what I'm fearing is to wake up one day and find that not even a beautiful sky is reason enough to carry on.

The eyes and lips of people on the street and in the metro don't leave much room for hope. Weighted down by gravity and speed, they look like random traces in the sand. Soon all the people will look alike, aged, ageless stick-figures. An up-pointing semi-circle, the mouth. Two crosses, the eyes. A hole in their chest, missing feelings. No worries, they can be easily replaced. Fill it with words or chocolate.

Meanwhile, I got back the feeling in my left ring-finger. It still feels empty from time to time, but it's getting better.

If worse came to worse, the Chat can chew it to the bone.

Melancholia

Humans
Everything always
Nothing nowhere

The Chat wonders about this end of the world - nothing seems to actually happen, but maybe this feline should be happy about it.

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.

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.