jackshoegazer | It is late and je parle un peu de français.

My upstairs neighbor is a sculptor. Apparently she's got a project going on, because she's been moving something heavy around all evening and for the last half-hour, she's been sawing something.

A long time ago, a British history writer was in my taxi. He'd come to the U.S. to get away for a few months so he could finish this book he'd been contracted to write. He'd just gotten here and didn't know anything from anything and I drove him around quite a bit. He got to asking an awful lot about my childhood and the more I told him, especially about my family life, the more he was interested. He said that by God, I need to write a memoir about that. It's almost unbelievable.

Maybe be was right. The more I think about it, the more I realize that I hardly believe all that could happen to one person.

Did I ever tell you about the time I had my bare ass beaten by a friend of my stepmother with a leather belt until I had welts for having fun at church? True story. Did I ever tell you that this gentleman, who happened to be of African descent, also fathered my sort-of step-brother? He and my stepmother had an affair and when my half-white/half-black "brother" was born, my stepmother said he was dark because of all the Native American blood on her father's side. My father, the great self-sacrificing Pisces that he is, raised the kid as his own regardless. Can you believe that? True story.

Quand je vais au ciné, je vois un film. Hier soir, j'ai parlé avec un belle femme. D'où est la bibliotheque? Je veux, je veux, je veux. Ce n'est jamais assez. Il y a beaucoup de mots.

I can read and write French fairly well so far. I still hear it for shit.