* Sweeteners

Here, people are throwing their empty sugar packets on the floor under the bar after sweetening their coffees. In the afternoon the café looks like a voting station or outside a town hall after a marriage. (Don’t get married, the confetti is a pain to clean and the rice will swell in the pigeons’ bellies.)

On Sundays sometimes you go here, sit under a picture of a crazy lady sticking her tongue out. Maybe the café is named after her, in your head though it’s named after Louise Bourgeois.

On Sundays sometimes you go here to work. But sometimes it doesn’t work. 

I actually attack the concept of happiness. I don’t mind people being happy - but the idea that everything we do is part of the pursuit of happiness seems to me a really dangerous idea and has led to a contemporary disease in Western society, which is fear of sadness. Wholeness is what we ought to be striving for and part of that is sadness, disappointment, frustration, failure; all of those things which make us who we are. Happiness and victory and fulfillment are nice little things that also happen to us, but they don’t teach us much. Everyone says we grow through pain and then as soon as they experience pain they say “Quick! Move on! Cheer up!” I’d like just for a year to have a moratorium on the word “happiness” and to replace it with the word “wholeness”. Ask yourself “is this contributing to my wholeness?” and if you’re having a bad day, it is.

Hugh Mackay (via karavanderbijl)

(via karavanderbijl)

* French pastry

image

If you’re gonna have the cake and eat it too and then have dessert after that you are going to get a stomach ache. Can you live with a stomach ache?

Photo: the brioche scene in Claire Denis’s “Nénette et Boni”.

J’ai / I have

* not 99 problems

* but a broken leg

* an empty fridge

* tired eyes

* just poured myself the last coffee in the house (it tasted like the last coffee in the house)

* things abandoned on my to do-list

* a soft college sweater that A left in the apartment when she left

* a view of trees that are slowly embracing spring

* a postcard on my desk saying “Every part of me is bleeding” in neon

* a deadline

I found more of my inspiration for Heartbeats in literature and visual art rather than other films. Marie and Francis, the two main characters, are passionate about the impossibility of what they fell for. They’re into the image, or the concept of love more than love itself. What is exciting for them is the idea of being loved by such a beautiful person. In the party scene where they’re dancing, they see this guy and Francis thinks of Cocteau drawings and Marie sees excerpts of Michelangelo’s David, for me this is a scene where I am trying to explain that they’re experiencing projection. They don’t know this guy: he’s rather uninteresting and he has questionable charisma. In essence, he’s pretty empty, but the characters don’t see this. They’re excited by the fact that he is out of reach; that he’s an impossible quest. What’s exciting to Marie and Francis in unrequited love is not that it’s love, it’s the fact that it’s unrequited; that they love the idea of being treated like shit. It’s modern and subtle sadism.

Xavier Dolan in Artforum.

You wear a top that says LOVE

because obviously he doesn’t get subtle hints

You wear a top that says LOVE

because maybe after all he can read

You wear a top that says LOVE

because you ain’t got all night

You wear a top that says LOVE

because actually it’s a really nice top.

"She has learned over the years that sanity involves a certain measure of impersonation /—-/"
Michael Cunningham, The Hours.
Art by Carmen Maiscal.

"She has learned over the years that sanity involves a certain measure of impersonation /—-/"
Michael Cunningham, The Hours.
Art by Carmen Maiscal.

On the way down rue Faubourg Saint Martin a pigeon chooses you

Morning / No rain / Paris
On the way down rue Faubourg Saint Martin a pigeon chooses you.
After you stumble into a kebab place asking for napkins you try to rid the stain from the Japanese dark blue wool coat while smiling half-heartedly at the owner who peppersprays you with winks and questions about your place of birth. Suède, oh la la. Elle est bonne, non?
He lets you use his facilities and provides you with paper towels without you having to buy anything, you figure the least you can do is smile a half-hearted smile.

Here all she desires is a return to the dangers of city life.

Michael Cunningham, The Hours

Intimacy is the capacity to be rather weird with someone - and finding that that’s ok with them.

Alain de Botton (via eroseca)

(Source: hollow-planet, via ladygrinning-soul)

* Bar behaviour

When you are leaving the bathroom the door travels from your hand into the bartender’s face. Hey! he screams.
You scream: cute!
Well, you think it.
He offers you to buy him a shot as a compensation. It’s either that or lawsuit. Or a nasty fight avec knuckles. You order two kirs from one of his colleagues.
What is this? he asks. The glass is filled to the brim with something too chemically red to be wine.
A shot would be too quick, this way you have to stay longer, you say. Also, it’s a test.
He takes a sip. Looks at you. A test?
Yeah, if you cringe after the first sip it would say a lot about you.
At this point you don’t trust people who don’t like kir.
At this point you are sick of people saying things like “this is way too sweet”.
He doesn’t cringe, just nods. Nothing will be too sweet for him. When he runs off to clear tables, get patrons to sign their receipts and wipe spilled vodka sodas from chairs, you read your horoscope on your phone and you drink your kir, actually most of his too because, as you know, buying drinks for bartenders is such a waste of money, even when they are cute.

Don’t tell anyone but I listened to this on repeat, over and over and over, when trailing the canal heading north in my running shoes on Saturday morning, indiscreetly lip-syncing, feeling like a crazy person. In terms of crazy, by the way, the lip-syncing in public is just a snowflake on the top of the iceberg.

At seven thirty in the morning there are only men in the cafés, getting their pores opened by their espressos and eyes by their newspaper news, leaning over the counter, counting their coins, without removing their coats. You’re doing your best to balance out the gender statistics, in a short skirt and rain-filtered long hair, by a corner table, slowly turning that croissant into crumbs.

You love starting your day in a new neighbourhood. Entering a café where nobody knows your name, like a ghost.

Last night you had the best sleep in ages. Short but deep, dreamless, your body without motion like a corpse, the contacts still in your eyes, eyelashes glued to your cheeks. You wake up in yesterday’s make-up, breathing in sheets washed with a detergent you didn’t choose but are slowly getting used to. You don’t remember your first thought but the second one is coffee.

At seven thirty in the morning there are only men in the cafés but you do your best to balance out the statistics.

At seven thirty in the morning there are only men in the cafés, getting their pores opened by their espressos and eyes by their newspaper news, leaning over the counter, counting their coins, without removing their coats. You’re doing your best to balance out the gender statistics, in a short skirt and rain-filtered long hair, by a corner table, slowly turning that croissant into crumbs.

You love starting your day in a new neighbourhood. Entering a café where nobody knows your name, like a ghost.

Last night you had the best sleep in ages. Short but deep, dreamless, your body without motion like a corpse, the contacts still in your eyes, eyelashes glued to your cheeks. You wake up in yesterday’s make-up, breathing in sheets washed with a detergent you didn’t choose but are slowly getting used to. You don’t remember your first thought but the second one is coffee.

At seven thirty in the morning there are only men in the cafés but you do your best to balance out the statistics.