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I am pulling my hair!


This morning, I am watching TV and pulling my hair. 

Because of the eight days left until the election and the abysmal gap between the two candidates? 

Because of the hurricane that will hit New York City? 

The bags of sand they’ve put down everywhere? The plywood panels they’ve briskly nailed down? The subways and the buses that have stopped? The airports that close? The supermarkets that have been robbed? 

Not really. 

I am rather curious about being a part of Sandy’s surge on the city. We don’t often have hurricanes in Paris. 


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The submarine …

Mon bureau

It gets better and better! I live in pajamas and in a submarine. 

Take out my periscope to see the ocean, grab the newspaper, buy some lettuce and fish, walk Chaussette and Zozo around midnight by the light of the moon. 

The pages are piling. Crossed page 335 yesterday. It’s beginning to become consistent. 

My new story gallops and takes me with it. I start working around 1PM. Write until exhaustion. Close the computer around 9PM. Collapse on the floor, the lawn, or the pebbles of the beach. 

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Vitamins in the straw of books

I write, I write, I write… 

The world erases itself, I drain of colors. 

Sometimes, I go out to get some air. And I return dazzled. 

I catch words with my teeth and type out page 136. 

Sometimes, it’s fast, sometimes, it’s slow. 

It cascades or it crusts, but it costs all the time. 


I listen to calm jazz, soft, on which I rest my head, and since I’m a sharer I am sending you a song…


I read bits and pieces. Bits of poems, pieces of essays. From which I draw strength, smiles, steps to follow. 

Such as this passage written by Jean Cau in his book, Croquis de Mémoire, that a friend gave me, telling me that it was so well written I would be overcome with ecstasy. He was right: I’m still dancing. 


“You meet beauty and, because of a detail, you understand that she is mortal. At her peak, Beauty should die. Or hide, and Marlène Dietrich sequesters herself in a Parisian apartment to be alone and decipher the tune of her lost beauty in the mirror. And Garbo, who was ‘divine,’ meets, at the bend of a path on a Greek island, two English tourists. They look at her, then advance towards her, who startles, and one says ‘Excuse me, ma’am, are you not Greta Garbo?’ She hesitates, then responds softly, as if after reflection, ‘Yes, sometimes.’”

My friend is right. I am swooning.