Already, I don’t even remember what I wrote in that damn book. My memory is wonderfully weak that way. It’s why I wrote it, after all. To remember at all that extraordinary thing that I did. And what a gift a frail memory is. Then everything is eternally somewhat new and like a little adventure, again, and again. “You can tell Christina the same joke every week,” he said of me. Yet I can remember him saying that, already ten years ago!

So now I have three weeks of nothing but time on my hands. With such deeply burning aspirations to write, what a gift of a pocket of time to do so, right? Wrong. A void of time does not equal inspiration! I had wanted to write for years. But what to say, at such a young age and of so little venturing? I finally had something particular to write about. Unique, mine. So I did. It is done. Now what?

Shall I write about this minor elective surgery that has me cooped up and unmoving, lying about like a shut-in, watching movies and ordering food for delivery? Is this how people live? “Some people, some of the time,” he said. A lot of people, a lot of the time, I think. It’s a social experiment, that’s how I’ve framed it in my mind in order to survive. And I’ve kept quite lovely spirits through it all, I must say. Seven days down and fourteen to go.

I’ve watched “Lady in Gold” and “Big Eyes” and “Cezanne et moi” and “Violette.” I miss Paris, where every moment is poetic, every word spoken is lyrical, where nothing is mundane, and even the air I breathe is melodic and infused with inspiration. I wish I could go there and be poor and work as a waitress and never speak English again. I wish I could live in Bordeaux, a place I have never been, and Benjamin would be my neighbor. We would meet sometimes for dinner and get drunk and smoke one hundred cigarettes in an evening. He would encourage me and I would always be the foreigner, with the accent, who makes little mistakes with her grammar, and nothing could please me more than fulfilling this exact role.

The neglected blog, the scattered poems to sort through, the unwritten ones. Back to the couch, to waiting, to wasting, to incubating.

À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
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