HUNTED BY A FREAK

Finishing up my last grad school application, rolling around in Mogwai and Polvo, eating St. Jorge cheese with ciabatta. It’s Saturday morning. I’m dreaming of the month or two I’ll hopefully be able to spend living and performing in France this year. Dream and do. I might just forsake my apartment in Toronto to stay longer (I’m opting out of a roomie – doing Paris solo) since I found a wicked cheap apartment at the corner of Rue St. Denis and Rue Serger in downtown Paris. The only stipulation: minimum three months occupancy. Halli tipped me off on Vacation Rental by Owner, so I might be able to find something with shorter occupancy that’s potentially comparable. This is all so exciting. New paint ideas. New ideas. Good people around. Looking forward to more singing. Play. A friend offered to record me. I’m stoked to jam with him. New opportunities are everywhere as I’m within stretching time of taking off. Beautiful.

Only lamentable news: I really don’t think my beloved Alice B. Toklas cookbook (a gift from my friend’s bookshop) will be replaced, now. I should have figured. Oh, what an unfortunate object-victim of buffoonery. Consolation has been readily offered by a few friends with communal French cooking, which should help me kick the blues. I’m lucky to have such loving people around me. Been on the love kick. Feels really good. Yeasayer has been in my head all day (/week):

“I’m so blessed to have spent the time with my family, and the friends I love. In my short life, I have met so many people I deeply care for…”

Ah.