Fighting wanderlust

I was lying in the grass last night and staring at the stars in the field. Little kids whispered to each other "Wow look at that!" as there was a loud crack, and greens and blues and reds exploded into the sky. A little boy was chased around by his brother near the swingsets. I was listening to firecrackers, thinking about Montreal, and what I would have been doing if I went this weekend like I was going to. Plans fall through. If I went to Montreal, I wouldn't have made my other zine, I wouldn't have been able to have a take-out picnic in the abandoned schoolyard and talk about life, love, and the things we expected to happen as the sun set. It was all like a movie.

Everything is not perfect in couple land I hear from the people who are there. I am always standing at the outskirts of their exclusive clubs, their boyfriend and girlfriend, and boyfriend and boyfriend and girlfriend and girlfriend clubs, wondering what I am doing. I get the stories, their frustrations, and all I can think is that they should be lucky to have what they have. They are not the ones who are sitting in their bedrooms alone typing on their typewriters on the floor while listening to french music and female jazz singers in the background. Sounds pretentious, but I feel they express so much emotion.

"A fine romance with no kisses, a fine romance my friend this is."

The price I pay for growing individual stability is love like this. Self-love, perhaps lonely, but better than the ephemeral kinds that last a season or two.

"Laisser tomber les filles, laisser tomber les filles, un jour c'est toi qui pluereras."

I love France Gall and all the girls who have covered her.