my mom's "non-gluten-laden" banana bread.

Call of the play

I feel like a slave; tormented by my habitual forces. There's no one around: I don't know how to find the others. I don't know how to reconnect with society. I haven't been able to make a friend in years...

There's no common sense. There's no space for natural human activity. It's all so... bleak, the future - and I'm a pretty optimistic person, usually - and I just wonder why there's nothing fun. I don't understand the purpose of these bars, condos, salons, restaurants, corner stores - you name it, it's still a very consumerist culture, and I'd rather make my own cocktails, save up for my little bungalow in a safe space somewhere, cook the BEST fking food I know how to make during the seasons, and avoid the temptation of the junk the food corporations sell to me.

Where are the places for card games? Where are the musicians playing music on street corners? Where are the frisbee games in the parks? Naught but dog walkers and city commuters, some busier than the next soul seemingly; stammeringly; through the sleepless nights; the city authoritative soundscape boring like a hot knife through my brain, when I only want to listen to the wind.

I want my good life back, when I felt like the city was alive and brimming with vitality. My youth, I suppose, which I refuse to give up on.

This metropolis has crumbled in front of my very eyes. WTF.

a poet.

Un poéme sans fin

Un terrain en béton parsemé de tâches de couleur sarcelle

Si littéraire; mais sans raison, aucun arc-en-ciel

La fin approche donc

the Volvo weirdness

blogging on the go, on the sidewalk is actually way more exciting than it sounds - and kinda dumb, if you remember the meme of teenager(s?) in NYC texting and falling down a sewer drain.

However, I'm on my way home, and I know these 'walks like the palms of my weathered hands.

I do weird things in private, but they're not like ridiculously weird. The ridiculously weird I probably won't ever get to share on here because I wouldn't remember the details and/or I just wouldn't feel comfortable sharing.

Here's a weird habit I have: when I'm on the sidewalk and I come across a parked Volvo, I do a pretend gesture of putting on a plain ol' 3-point seatbelt and walking on.

It reminds me that the inventor of the seatbelt patent worked at Volvo, and it gives me an imaginary sense of safety in an ever more unsafe megalopolis of roads.

feu sans ignition.

Barely using AI chatbots these days. None consulted for this post: human-written, in other words.

J'en reviens pas. C'est vraiment la première fois - ou quasiment, gotta cover my bases - que je fais un freewrite en français, en ligne, sur mon blogue. Ça m'épate.

Évidemment, je commence par lutter contre lautocorrec', qui va probablement venir bastardizé mon style francophile dévoleppent, qui, bien sûr, est déjà truffé d'erreurs d'orthographes et bien pire, j'en suis sûr et certain!

Quels faux-pas de grammaire vais-je faire ressortir de les recoins de ma tête délinquante; quels faux amis vont sortir de la cabane à glucose de la tête à Gabby; ça existe tu réellement le point-virgule d'Oxford, et est-ce que je viens de l'utiliser? Ais-je vraiment économiser un point d'interrogation avec ma p'tite passe impossible d'écriture non-redigée dans ce paragraphe-ci?

C'est dur à lire, mouais, et que je lutte contre mon téléphone qui pourtant est réglé pour au moins être simili bilingue. Je dis {simili} parce que yé pas trop intelligent mon téléphone parce-que je n'utilise pas en tant que smartphone: c'est à peine si je fais de la photographie dessus. C'est dommage, mais peut être ça va venir de nouveau et je serais content de l'utiliser pour tout ses fonctions.

Bon; je radotte trop, donc je vous quitte et je vous laisse avec une autre photo qui, malheureusement, rempli mon stockage limité sur Google mais ça vaut la peine, je crois.