I knew she was French, somehow, before she spoke. It was her shoes, maybe, or the way she shifted her body before she turned around. Something in the angle she held her head and shoulders.
She pulled out a long, thin cigarette and tapped it delicately, almost impatiently.
"Go right ahead!" I responded, as coarse and unrefined as can be, my posture slumped and remnants of lunch scattered on my table.
This is one of the moments where I wish I would have tried to bum one of her cigarettes off her, so we could have been classy and smoked together and talked of Paris.
I don't, of course. I remain uncouth and messy at my little table.
Continuing to decipher notes from class. A single page in my notebook looks like this - all these random bits to remember:
|| Life as Poesis. Vocational. Filling it.
|| "Damn" as Claudia jumps to reach the top of the chalkboard she's already filled with Knocknarea and Ben Bulben and Newgrange. What a funny thing to see!
|| Violence a kind of impetus.
|| Thumos - furnace, force of being, spiritedness. "Even the wisest man uses violence as an impetus, as a force, as a means for knowing himself."
|| [Like a bulldog, she way she snarls and woofs.]
|| John says he goes to pubs with friends - talks for 5 min on politics, 5 min medical reports, 1 hr fun & light-hearted.
|| [Reading before made me doubt him, but reading now draws me to him.]
|| But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you...
|| in the deep hearts core - like the innisfree poem. and we shall find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow.
|| Eros = that which draws you towards that which drives you.
|| Truth is founded in the beggars heart. The beggar is the one who has nothing to lose.
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