Thursday, July 7, 2011


I would like to take this time to name my English student "Scratchy," after his late baby squirrel. He is my age, nice looking, a non smoker, and one of those rare specimens known as "French Surfers" from the South. Understandably he comes with an air of nostalgia for the male species back home in the islands, wearing T-shirts and sporting surfer guy hair.

While I have long suspected that the only reason he comes to my lessons, since I'm the world's worst English teacher, seriously, may well be our age proximity and my not entirely horrible cuteness quotient, today he surprised me by offering to take me on a visit to Dijon's surrounding areas "some Sunday," "when he has time."

He also had a lot to say about me potentially finding work in a vineyard. I shall investigate this.

And in secondary news, I've been thinking a lot about dreams this week. Windows to the subconscious? Vast reservoirs of cryptic info about life, spirituality, or human psychology just waiting to be deciphered? Or are we unaccountable for any of the trouble our brains get into when we let em' off the leash each night?

Lately I've been dreaming about having a pug dog puppy and forcing cuddles on his tiny squirming body. I don't generally like dogs; and I've always found ownership of the small pathetic ones kind of a perverse display of a desire to dominate a lesser and submissive being. I've also dreamt of surviving a zombie apocalypse by fleeing to the ocean and staying with a pod of dolphins for 8 days, befriending a tree that had skin instead of bark, and always, alllwaaays, dreams about Harry. He emerges, full of love an reciprocity, and my chest fills up with warm delicious sunbeams; until the the sight of my ceiling extinguishes them with a swift bucket of cold awareness.

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