This week: 140, 216 RTD. FUCK!

It was Charles De Gaulle Airport, but the year was 1923. Before commercial air travel was possible. It was the era of large vessels a sea, floating from one coast to another, as it hauled ticketed passengers with luggage case upon luggage case and stowaways with nothing but the clothing on their backs. Yet, somehow, airplanes were taking off and landing at the field.

A Poll

Christine:

FUCK OFF! I don't write about myself, you stupid little bitch. Who said I wrote about myself? Who told you anything about me? Who?
And you call yourself a reporter. It's called fact checking. Now, move along with my daughter and I eat lunch.

Hervé:

I pleaded with him to save me. I asked him repeatedly to put me into the group that was administered the drug. I begged. I cried out. I carried on like a tempestuous child.
I was given only the placebo.

Muzil:

[...] (sic)

Anne was unavailable for comment, but I am sure she would interject something about the Brontë sisters.

* * *

It was autumn, yet again. Just before the winter that ended it all. I didn't retain anything from that time. It was difficult. Nothing happened. Quiet reigned. Silence.

Nelly called. I wasn't going to answer, but did at the last second. She was upset about a client. Someone who knew her father. She was worried that her client would tell her father about her. She knew she was found out. She was scared. She was upset. She told me the client paid her handsomely for her services and winked when he said it would be "their little secret." She called to tell me this. About the father who didn't know, about the mother who was sick and in bed and not moving much these days and didn't have the mental wherewithal to comprehend what she was doing in the first place. And about how she would completely understand if her father were visiting brothels in the red light to ease some sort of pain from his invalid wife - if one can claim that sexuality can ease the pain of life beyond the fleeting time it takes to orgasm. Or perhaps it was only about those fleeting moment.

She was a professional, Nelly. Swept up into something that she knew all about, and then exploited herself and her clients and her profession the way she was exploited. She did it well, both exploiting and being exploited, Nelly. I can't say that she disliked being a whore.

Something about the whole thing suited her well.

I could never say the same of Jennifer.


* * *

The tricky thing about Paris is that the architecture is all relatively the same. From arrondissement to arrondissement there is practically no change is appearance. It is the intangible, the feeling, the vibe, the people that make a difference.

A Lesson In French Grammar - Homonyms and conjugations

S'aimer: s'aime, s'aimes, s'aime, s'aimons, s'aimez, s'aiment
Semer: sème, sèmes, sème, semons, semez, sèment
(La) Seime: Noun, thus invalidated.

None of this is superfluous. There is a reason for everything. It is simple to dismiss that which one does not comprehend.

* * *

Another season has passed. The summer is over.