The French Saga: Where Has My Sanity Gone?

An Encyclopaedia of the Obvious

Translated from the Latin and Updated by Ariel Ranieri

Clothes

Kingdom: Clothalia

Phylum: Clothata

Class: Sewnalia

Order: Weartia

Genus: Clothus

Clothes (from the Latin "toga", "large billowing bedsheet wrapped around the body, most commonly worn by college boys") are the traditional method of dressing the human body. The singular form of the word, "cloth", can mean material used to fabricate the clothing (the other singular form of the word) or it can mean a ragged piece of material used to clean the extensive mess humans make in their daily lives.

Clothes reproduce neither asexually nor sexually, as they are in most cases mass-produced by underpaid children in developing countries.

Recent studies suggest that part of why certain humans dress so badly is that the clothes, having no means of communication, cannot express their extreme displeasure in being so horrendously displayed. Further studies are being conducted and communicative clothing may arrive soon in our future. It will probably have the voice and personality of Martha Stewart.

Overall, clothes are an integral part of the human experience. Humans love clothes and spend very much money on them, not a cent of which the underpaid children in developing countries will ever see. This is per the human kick-them-while-they're-down philosophy. To date, there is no historical or logical reason to believe this philosophy will change.

Certain humans have a keen sense of fashion. These humans are called fashion designers. The best of the best of these designers have a very small clientele and thus, not mass-producing anything, have no use for the underpaid children in developing countries. They charge exorbitant prices for their artwork. This price includes the piece, the name, and the ego, hence the large price. Many twice-baked women enjoy these pieces and twice-baked men are getting into them as well. Many other people also like them but haven't the money for the name or the ego.

There are certain occasions when people take their clothes off. These include sexual intercourse, daily hygiene, and airport security. On most occasions, however, humans keep their clothes on. This suggests an insecure attachment to the mother's womb: the human wishes to be enveloped in something at all times, even when the weather suggests this is a bad idea.

There are certain types of people who enjoy watching others take their clothes off. These include porn addicts, sex addicts, moviegoers, and airport personnel.

If ever you find yourself without clothes, simply pick a large quantity of long-stemmed weeds and weave them into a garment. Or, if you have a towel, wrap it around yourself. You may also use a bedsheet, although this has rather fallen out of style. In an attempt to revive the toga, try sporting the fitted sheet in place of the flat one.

Forgive me, internet, for I have been without you for many days, but will in your absence continue to seek you out in places known and unknown, until such time as you return to me.

Thus, in lieu of one blog post, have several:

1) They keep wanting to cut my bread in half, and I'm not really sure why.

2) What do homeless people dream of? Food? Money? A bed? Un monde completement different?

3) AMSTERDAM. It was cool. You should go there. I will put pictures on facebook.

4) The Eiffel Tower is tall. You should go there too. I will put more pictures on facebook.

That's all for today, it's time to go, trala!

WOW.

The French Saga: Miam Miam! (Or, a Love Affair with Nutella)

It's so...creamy. Somewhere between peanut butter and chocolate syrup is bliss. Dip, twist, savor.

I opened a new bottle of nutella yesterday and paused. Paused because that clean, smooth surface peered back at me, seemed to suggest that if I really was going to eat it, I ought to do it right. And then I plunged a fresh-broken baguette into the center of my prey and indulged in the hard-earned spoils of war (although war with whom, I'm not quite sure).

Bread, crackers, by the spoonful...each attack yields new patterns of waves on the ruptured surface. Like a storm in a canister, like picture perfection in the palm of my hand.

Maybe this is why I came to Paris.

It's different here. Subtler, smoother, sweeter. Like reliving childhood memories. Good ones. Birthdays with too much cake and Christmases with too many presents (do those exist?).

I want a relationship like the one between baguette and nutella. Wonderful separate, perfect together.

I would like to say (as per usual) that Paris is nutella. But I can't. I have found something that stands alone in this city, that is more than any place can offer because you can possess it. You can lick the last traces off the back of the spoon and stare longingly back at your distorted, gluttonous image, wishing for more. And you won't feel guilty about it.

You can't do that with Paris. It's too independent.

I went to a "match de rugby" today. My friend and I spent a good deal of the walk back discussing nutella. The rugby match was alright.

I am going to Amsterdam next weekend. I may bring nutella.

My neighbor plays a large string instrument (I think it's a cello). I eat nutella.

Pavlov rings a bell. Dog eats dogfood. I eat nutella.

The truth is that nutella is more than just a food. It is an experience, like eating beautiful music. It has taught me that you cannot fall in love overnight. It takes time to cultivate the relationship, to understand that communication is key and that respect is invaluable. I respect nutella. Nutella respects me.

My eyes stray constantly to the bottle on the shelf, for inspiration and because there is some left. But I must procure discipline. Everything in moderation. Even nutella.

The French Saga: A Man Named Victor Hugo

I never knew Victor Hugo was the coolest person ever. Writer, activist, poet…In 83 years he lived France’s most tumultuous century and, declining to simply weather it out, chose to prod the beast.

Pourquoi essayer quand on vive sous l’ombre de M. Hugo, conquistador du monde civilisé ? Car on n’a pas de choix. Pour être, au mieux, comparée à cet homme qui n’est plus homme, qui est devenu dieu.

I keep finding allegories for Paris. Perhaps it’s because I’ve so long been enamored of the city, and perhaps I do have a rosewater vision of this place that reality has not yet darkened.

It seems to me that Paris is the poet activist. City of love, city of strikes.

The Sorbonne is on strike. I don’t know why, but they are. I think it has something to do with research. I went there today. It was cold. The name Richelieu was mentioned and all I could think of was the three musketeers.

It’s funny the history of a place you think you know, and then you realize you know nothing. Who knew that the Sorbonne was the symbol of the elitist Catholic régime in the tender, formative years of French protestantism ?

I didn’t.

But I’m going to give a presentation about it on Tuesday.

La Sorbonne, la bigotte,
La Sorbonne se taira !

In other news, my toilet enjoys flooding the WC with stagnant water and smiling at me with that sly smirk some toilets have when not working properly. It also enjoys long walks on the beach. Unfortunately it has no legs.

I also remain rommateless in Paris. This is alright, but I would like someone to fill up the empty half of the room. Hopefully she’ll be hère soon !

Tomorrow I go to Pavillon de l’Arsenal, whatever that is. The French have so many monuments, they don’t even know what to do with them anymore. I’ll offer to take some home with me.

I continue to realize that no one is wholly good or wholly bad.

Saturday is Rugby, so that should be interesting. Hopefully it’ll be fairly warm, it’s been getting a little bit Chicago-y lately.

Anyway, I’m running out of steam.

Bonne soirée !