House on Fire, review

It's finally a beautiful day in Paris, and as usual, I am splitting my time between the computer and the bed. In a minute I promise to go out and enjoy it. I found this internet cafe that isn't too expensive not far from the house and bought 5 hours for 10 euros. I plan to come here regularly throughout my final days in Paris this year.

I've been struggling with insonmia, and fatigue from the language classes, and I decided to cut back my consumption of French. This way I can enjoy being here before I go, be rested, and not make myself any crazier. I told my journal the other night that in fact I am just killing time, but on the other hand, this is my life I am trying to live here. It's a big responsibility. I want to do it right.

I have started sorting the papers I have accumulated over the past 5 months and realizing what am amazing experience I have had. I wouldn't trade these 5 months for 30 years working and feeling like crap. Not that I don't feel like crap here too sometimes, but I never feel like I am selling my time/soul for a pittance and someone else's benefit. I wish I could live it all over again. But, I can do better than that; I can live something like it but entirely new again next year.

I finished reading "Once in a House on Fire" by Andrea Ashworth, which is sort of an English version of "Bastard Out of Carolina". My mother didn't like it, so before she had finished it, she gave it to me. My general reaction: some people should not be allowed to have children. period. I haven't worked out the details of this policy, but really.... I didn't like the book much more than my mother did, but I finished it because I had nothing better to read (the Poirier apt, where I am living now, is filled with fabulous books to read, so this won't happen again). I picked out a few quotes, out of desparation, that reasonated with me:
"I fell in love a thousand times -a hundred times a day- with boys, girls, teachers, books, words. Quintessential. Quidditas. Scraphim. Ignotea artes. Even the color of the sky knocked me sideways as I crossed the grass to my English class, wondering whether a plus or a minus would be dangling from the A that was known to bloom at the end of my essays." (pg 275)
She remains this full of herself throughout the book (something I don't really understand bc I don't find her writing that wonderful), but I feel exactly the same way here in Paris some days -- everything I see or hear or taste "knocks me sideways", makes feel like I have been struck by lightening and it is a pleasant experience after all. The color of the sky remains the worst offender, and the book I am reading now, "Paris to the Moon" mentions French politicans regaining their popularity by professing that they are not interested in politics, they now focus on taking long walks and look at the sky. Here, I can hardly blaim them.

From a personal perspective, I loved the quote a few pages later. Family, ex-lovers, and former roommates will know what I mean: "The shreiks of a heartbroken elephant trumpeted through the house each time she blew her nose."