Everyday conversations sound far better in French (than in English).

My subway ride from work was brightened by the interesting conversation between a young French-speaking pregnant mother and her (I’m guessing) three year old son. The child seemed tired from a long day, displeased at being surrounding by towering adults who hardly noticed him standing and was generally disgruntled (he found it unkind of people to push into the crowded, already-full, subway car and cram it beyond capacity). He is hardly to blame for disliking the rush hour commute. When he had the opportunity to sit, he scowled in response to my smile. His mother proceeded to inform him that his action was ill-mannered and inconsiderate and their conversation veered off. I found it so pleasant to listen to her calm instructive voice as he occasionally replied or expressed confusion.

Il faisait beau...

Looking intently at my hair, gathered high on my head in a firm twist of locks, my father said:

“Have you considered that you may have a hidden talent for cake decorating?”

She wanted to draw; to draw out long, thick, thin, blue madness from her brush, pen, vein – to escape and hide in the desert inhaling grains of sand until it filled her whole. She wanted to bathe in thick viscous ink colouring herself blue. She wanted her naked blue body to reflect her sombre disenchanted mood.

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

William Butler Yeats

The relevance astounds.

The Sociological Experiment that is Public Transportation

While public transportation offers numerous benefits, it appears that humans have evolved – or should I say, degradation has taken place, and the experience of ‘rush hour’ has become nearly intolerable. Nay, it is not due to the sheer mass of humans, but rather it's atrocious behaviour prominently displayed. It is as though humans ‘en-masse’ are screaming, “Forget those other people, I would step over each and every one if they get in the way of my morning coffee!” As a result of this considerate attitude, pregnant women are left standing (“Why the hell not? She better toughen up if she’s going to pop one out!”), the elderly are also often left without a seat (only if they happen to faint does the concern then sweep over the faces of the apathetic populous).

Not only are the fading morals of society on display during rush hour, but all sorts of clowns come out to play. The solipsistic woman/man who acts as though the subway/metro/whatever-you-would-like-to-call-it moves only for him/her can be characterized by a sort of downward condescending stare toward those in close proximity. There is often the individual, (or on bad days, individuals), with a particularly horrendous smell; it may be bad cologne or perfume, body odour, flatulence etc. This person will often sit or stand right by you; the probability of this occurring doubles on a day when you feel slightly under the weather, and obscene smells will drive you over the edge. The frisky, sexually-repressed person is also easily found on a typical subway ride, and is usually male. They may stare at you, lick their lips, or touch you ‘inadvertently’. I find that the staring is most common; it is a stare that says, “If I were in a dark alley and you happened to walk by, I would ravage your body without a single regret and leave you there to rot.”

I’ll leave it at this but, let’s face it: humans are sick.

Et moi dans mon coin

It has been a while, I know. I apologize to the non-existent readers and assure you all (ha!) that I will be posting more regularly from now on.

The song included below is beautiful, I could listen to his voice constantly.

Intoxicated by his smell, she drifted off into the softness of the sheets

Memories and melodies haunting her...

“In my dreams I kiss your cunt, your sweet wet cunt. In my thoughts I make love to you all day long.”