If all goes well, then something cool I did over at Where’s Neil? will be in effect by tomorrow. Fingers crossed. Parts one and two have worked. Waiting for the others. At first I was thwarted, then I sent him an email. I suspect he’s way too busy to deal with such trivia, but maybe the website admin saw and thought it was cool because the box I needed freed up suddenly.

Please don’t tell the guy whose box I stole is all.

A couple of months ago, when I was still at Middlebury College, I spewed some nonsense in French at everyone about a poem I wrote in French — my first ever — and how it was published in the college gazette. It was a dark little poem brilliantly entitled, “Little.” Actually, a slightly better translation is “The Little One,” because the French use “petite” in the same way as we do “little one” as a term of affection for their children.

Here is a translation of that poem in English.

“The Little One”

So,
I listened.

Here’s a link to my LiveJournal, where I’ve posted the original French version. Blogger seems to hate foreign characters for some reason.

I’ve translated the imparfait into the conditional in places, as the exact implications of the imparfait are not understood in a straight English past tense translation, I think. Also, sometimes I translate the imparfait into the indicative. At any rate, the above is how I would have written the poem in English, had that been my first try. You’ll just have to believe me that the poem sounds much cooler in French. I’m just now getting a glimpse at the intricacies of translation. It’s a miracle the world isn’t at war, you know?

You’ve been dying, I tell you DYING to get some fresh verbiage from the Sweetpea of Darkness, haven’t ya?

Okay, maybe not. But, still, here is an interview with me from Grotto Maris Luna, a pagan group whose founder, JD Holveck, is now podcasting for the pagan community in Los Angeles and beyond. I’m in Grotto Radio Podcast #2, appearing after the first interview with the sponsor.

This interview is about my initial experiences as a pagan in France and how it compares with Los Angeles. I’ll be doing at least semi-regular talks with JD over the coming months. As you’ll soon discover, JD has an amazing voice and wonderful radio presence.

My Internet connection continues to be problematic. I’ll answer email as soon as I’m able.

Our Internet connection has been dead for about 15 hours with no sign of revival.

Livebox is dead. Long live Livebox.

I’m updating from The Frenchman’s office. I’ll post when I can, but I’m pretty much e-AWOL for now.

(ARGH.)

I wrote 1500 words this morning.

Booyah!

The story is congealing into something statuesque and scary with the new data. It swung its legs over the edge of the bed this morning and stood for a few minutes before sitting down again and moaning new orders. Just a few more jolts, and…

I’m writing as much as possible today because tomorrow we go to a magistrate in Marseille to get my long-term visa. I’m feeling a bit uneasy as tomorrow is the beginning of a very, very sucky astrological transit. It’s only a week-and-a-half long, but it sucks big chapped, hairy nuts nonetheless.

I didn’t get to weigh in at Weight Watchers last night because I’m not a member, but I might have lost more than The Frenchman this last week (which isn’t a fair comparison, as he had to contend with dieting in NYC for four days). Afterwards, we went to aquagym. GAH. I did aqua aerobics for an hour. The people were super nice for the most part. A couple of them realized I was American and started speaking English to me, even if it wasn’t perfect. I was so pleased. I felt welcome and had a lot of fun, especially pinching The Frenchman underwater — woo!

Now back to it.

…and not just because I’m far away!

Take a gander at my disappearing profile.

Less flab, more fab!

Craziness.

I ate a spinach-mushroom-cheese crepe as big as my head and then walked for over two hours through downtown Aix, just getting familiar with the territory. I didn’t open my map once. I figured this was the best way to learn my way around. There was some sort of fair going on all the way down Le Cours Mirabeau, complete with these fantastic 19th century-dressed stilt walkers, wearing tophats, goggles, and steampunk jetpacks! My inner geek thrilled at the sight.

My inner geek was not too happy about the two game stores I found. There’s a Games Workshop right in downtown Aix, but it was filled with very smelly boys playing some kind of chit game that took up most of the store. I left after three seconds, it smelled so bad. I also visited a regular game store that seemed to have all the standard favorites and some figurines, but seemed to feature these really awful looking pellet guns. They looked so much like real guns they disturbed me. I’m not a big proponent of gun control, but I do think it’s inappropriate to sell kids guns like this. They have no fucking clue what the difference is when they pick up a real gun. And I’m sure guns get into this country despite the laws.

Okay, now I must write…

The other night, The Frenchman and I were at a soiree in downtown Aix. The hostess put down a bowl of eggplant dip and a plate of juicy bell pepper strips.

I took one bite of the bell pepper and howled: “OH MY GOD! This is the freshest bellpepper I’ve ever tasted in my life!”

I chomped several more slices. Tangy-sweet, crunchy and unbelievably juicy.

The next day, I was cooking for The Frenchman. We had bought onions at the local market the day before. I sat down with the bread board and a sharp knife, and started cutting. Within seconds, my eyes were flooded with hot, painful tears. My makeup began to run, adding to the fiery stabbing pains. I ran blindly to the bathroom, stumbling. The Frenchman caught my arm in the nick of time — he’d just poured some very nasty drain cleaner in the bathroom sink. Running water would have been potentially disasterous. He rushed me back into the kitchen where he helped me clean and soothe my tortured peepers.

“What happened?” he asked, still alarmed because I could barely talk, I was in so much pain.

“The onions,” I said. “They made me cry.”

“Honey, of course they made you cry! It helps to open the door for air.”

“But…but onions don’t make you cry!” I said. “I’ve never cried when cutting an onion!” I did cry cutting onions when I was a kid growing up in the foothills of Sacramento, but that was a long time ago, and a lot of different onions under the bridge. Are onions chemically different in L.A. than here? It shouldn’t be. The onion was cold. That should have helped.

And then there are the egg yolks. They’re sunflower yellow, like dollops on Cezanne’s palette. The Frenchman says we don’t even have to keep them in the refrigerator.

I’m so confused.

I thought I knew food. I don’t know jack.

I don’t even know jack cheese.

It looks like I’ll be working with the consultant I wanted to hire to help me with the police plotline in my book. I’m happy about this because I really need the help, and I can’t even call LAPD these days. (I’d have to use Skype, and Skype comes up on caller ID as “01234567”. They would think I was a total prankster.)

Tomorrow, I’ll be interviewed for a Pagan podcasting station. When the interview is available, I’ll post a link. I’m thinking of doing an extended article for them at a later time about the trail of Zeus from Los Angeles to France. I’ve been tweaking on all of the amazing coincidences I’ve been encountering, but more on that when it’s available.

Another ailment.

I guess my body is having a delayed reaction to all the transitioning I went through last week, when my brain went OHMYGODEVERYTHINGISSODIFFERENTIWANNAGOHOME! Except it was far more complex than that because there was no way in hell I was going to leave The Frenchman. And besides, there’s all that reallly good wine in the pantry. And fresh black grapes. And figs. And…and…

This doctor didn’t speak as much English as the lady doctor and even gave me a referral to a specialist. Hot diggity! Meds, expensive doctors. Just what I need. (Not.)

I suspect I’ll be fine soon. The Frenchman is in New York for another gig. He’ll be back on Monday afternoon. My transits bite ass that afternoon, all the way through ’til Wednesday. Why-oh-why? Then, one great transit kicks in on Thursday with another that is oh-so-very-awful by Friday. These are long ones. What could be great and awful all at once?

Don’t answer that.

For the record, I totally called it. In an email to Brian Flemming on August 25th, I predicted that Lonelygirl15 was a fake created by a filmmaker who wanted to get attention:

Brian,

Just fueling the Bree “fraud” fire: I know many Thelemites personally. Knowing them, their beliefs and the sorts of people that are attracted to that religion, I think it’s completely assinine to pose Bree as a “home schooled” child by “strict” Thelemite parents. Such a configuration doesn’t exist. The video makers are counting on a largely Judeo-Christian, “Jesus head” audience who is entirely ignorant of magickal orders. This one in particular isn’t satanic. I think the relationship is drawn because Crowley said, “Do what thou wilt, it is the whole of the law,” and Anton LaVey paraphrased this law in The Satanic Bible, but with a different, more indulgent slant. I could be wrong but the two are entirely unrelated to the best of my knowledge.

Before I left Disney a couple of months ago, I was in the loop on a viral marketing campaign they were doing for Everest before it opened. I’ve not yet seen these videos, and I can tell you right now that Bree is a marketing ploy — if not for a major corporation, then for an individual filmmaker who wants recognition. I’m hoping for the latter because that would be so much cooler.

^M^

The worst part is, I never even saw any of the YouTube episodes. I read what other people were saying about it and I just knew. I guess no matter how far away from home I am, I’m hardwired to the dastardly ways of Hollywood. Go me, eh?

We had our first soiree last night, and it was very nice, even if I only understood about 30% of the conversations. I made some new friends, which is much needed here. I’ve concluded that I’m a better guest than a hostess for lots of silly reasons, including my insecurity over serving fruit salad. (Is there enough pear? Enough apple and grapes? Is there any “extra protein” — i.e. bugs — in it? Oy!) Fortunately, one of our wonderful guests brought a small bottle of kirsch, a really yummy liqueur that you can pour over fruit. C’est magnifique!

And I just finished Chuck Palahniuk’s Diary. Oh my fucking gawd! How much darker can dark get? It really was marvelous. The surprise theme of the book is one with which I’m intimately familiar…