C’est dans le mois de mai que les filles sont belles

The line in the title refers to a song (I believe?) in French. It means “It is in the month of May that girls are beautiful”. Of course, in my opinion, when you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, no matter the month, and, when you’re ugly, May won’t make you beautiful.

That said, I was supposed to go see my parents this weekend. I would have left this morning with my godmother, aunt and uncle. Obviously, my careful choice of tenses and vocabulary makes it clear that I have not left with them. I had to take the train to go to my godmother yesterday, early in the evening. I made it there in the subway with Eric, and arrived on time. However, as the afternoon went on, and then as we approached our destination, I felt less and less the will of going. I wanted to stay, and was on the verge of crying. Eric forced me (not physically, mind you) to at least go at my godmother’s. Good little girl that I am, I obeyed, or rather bent to his will with a strong mixture of fear, anxiety and will to go. The night at my godmother’s place was good, except for the part where they all sang, because, God, I hate when they sing. And they love to sing. All the time. It’s awful.

I called my mother, as advised by Eric and as I wished to do anyway, and told her of my will to stay here instead. She was the one who wanted me to go in the first place. To my surprise, she seemed quite comprehensive, or at least she didn’t really argue with me. She did state a thing or two that could have convinced me to go, but there was no anger. So, of course, I stayed here.

I had to take the train again this morning, but the ride is pleasant and passes quickly. Trains are far less noisy and shaky than subways or buses. A great plus, too, is that they are outside at all times, and not in dark tunnels. They also don’t get caught in traffic like buses do.

Some of the sight is beautiful. I love passing over rivers (you pass over two big ones to go from Montreal to where my godmother lives), with all the trees on each side of it. A part of it, however, is just plain ugly. There’s a point where you stop nearby something that looks like a series of small gardens. There are a bunch of squares of earth, with small fence-like things, and some tools I could not identify. It looked rather, erm, ugly to me. You also stop at, whatever the name is, a factory where they make wooden boards. Not exactly the prettiest sight in the world. There’s also a stop just beside a car “cemetery”, with a bunch of old cars, with broken windows, missing wheels, and a lot of mud on the soil.

I’m writing a novel which I quite like. The main line of the story came to me several years ago, at the time where I would use so many sheets (of which one side was already used by something else, usually school-related) to write one-sentence summaries of stories. “Dying Florence” was one of those that remained in my mind for years, and I finally started writing it. I only have a little over seven pages written down, but I have a lot of future events already in my mind, and the main structure of the story is mostly in my mind too. The title, however, has changed to just “Florence”, and I moved the action away from the city of the same name. The title used to refer to both the city of “Florence” (the Italian city) and to one of the main characters. It now refers only to the character.

I have almost finished re-reading the first book from the Emily series by Lucy Maud Montgomery. I quite like it and I guess I find in it a pleasure different from that I had as a child. Being older and having more experience makes me understand certain things better than I could at the moment, including Emily’s relationship to her writings, old and new. Once I’ve finished it, I will go back to reading Jane Eyre and proceed with the other Brontë’s novels that are in the volume I have borrowed from the library.

I forgot to mention that one of the main things that I will miss from not going to see my parents is Vincent (friend of mine, mentioned in several posts before, sometimes referred to as “V”, without the quotation marks). I haven’t seen him for nearly a year and I miss him. I have spoken to him on MSN quite often, but it never equals the real sight of him. Also, he hasn’t signed on for some time, which makes me assume he either has returned to his home city (nearby my village) or is on a trip.

I spoke to my cousin, my godmother’s daughter, yesterday. Not for a very long time, but still long enough to learn something that made me languish and feel nostalgia for something I never saw…I guess it’s just in my blood. She has had depressive tendencies for years, she has been through anorexia, she has had burnouts, she moved a lot, has had unstable relationships with men. She says she longs to leave, she wishes to go away. Of all the countries in the world, her choice did not fall on the United States, on France, or even on England, not on New Zealand, India or China. No, she is making preparations (passport, working visa, etc.) to go to Ireland. It’s so unfair! Ireland! I mean, of every single country in the world, it is the one I most wish to see! Walk on the earth that saw my ancestors grow and die, then leave to come to America…Granted, I’m only 1/8th Irish (saying such a small number makes me feel awkward), but I gain much pride in it, perhaps too much for my own good, much more than I do from my French blood. Ireland! How often has my father told us he wishes to go there, but doesn’t have the money, passing this desire onto me! It’s like THE big dream. Yes, I wish to write, make movies and all, but, dude, Ireland! I named one of my imaginary father’s houses Ireland House. I want a .ie domain (now isn’t this a sign of love for a country?). I want to learn Irish Gaelic, even if it’s a language so few people speak on the Earth. Perhaps I have a too romantic vision of Ireland, but you must admit that it isn’t a bad place to go visit…


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