A French girl

Today 15:30, Tate Modern: I don't know anyone in this city I decided to come here for three weeks but I have no idea why. I'm staying with a friend of a friend and he goes to university and has two jobs. I only saw him once when he came in to take a shower. I miss everyone in Paris. When I arrived at the airport I just wanted to get back in the plane. Why did I come here? What am I doing here?

Field trip

Things said during visit to the Schwarzwald with my boss and his employees: If Heidegger's hut is more than a kilometer from here, we shouldn't go.* Do we have to do the performance? I bake bread and sell it to the people in Ilpedam. They didn't have a bakery there. Since we only need twenty percent of the people who currently have essential jobs for our survival, why are we working such long days? I spent some time with her parents on her birthday. She had a party to attend. They were very quiet. You don't think there's a big group of women who have sex with their boyfriends when they don't want to? I think there's a big group of men too. Women never ask if their ass is too small. When I worked as a caterer and a man asked me to come to his hotel room for 2000 euros. That's when I decided not to become a prostitute. What's the name of that political analyst on TV? Her I find attractive. There's something vulgar about being sexy. I was sitting at the bar, and there she was. Of course she had to break up with her boyfriend first. He's a dentist. We are currently negotiating about an open relationship. It's not my hipbones, more my calves actually.

*We didn't end up seeing Heidegger's hut, although we were very close.

Today

Was not such a good day at the museum. My stories felt uninspired and the only person who responded basically ended up asking me out. Yesterday was better. I complimented a couple, in their sixties, on the way they were standing (relaxed intimacy, connected yet not restricting) and they looked at each other and smiled. They went on to tell me they were actually not together. Not right now at least. They used to date when they were thirty. For some reason they broke up, they didn't specify why, moved away from each other, and got married to other people. When they broke up however, they agreed they would get in touch again when they were both fifty. On her fiftieth birthday he called her and they met each other in London. After that initial meeting they would meet one weekend a year, without their spouses knowing. They seemed to genuinely enjoy every minute with each other. Which makes sense after you realize they only have 172800 minutes a year.

Missed Messages

Heading there now, it's 74 Tavistock, my phone is buggin, call Darrens. At Barbican Cafe. Come! We moved to a pub called Jugged Hare at 49 Chiswell St. Right next to Barbican. Come! Fuuuuck! Abort mission, tv here is broken...stay tuned. Portobelloroad and westway, place called la plaza Just got out of tube What messages? I guess not.*

*I never ended up going to these locations, since I received all of these messages three days later. London and I are not syncing up right.

Bad things

In chronological order: Broke off a relationship. Was late. Got yelled at by boss. An awkward moment with a visitor. Had drinks with friend. Got into a fight with him about a miscommunication and principles. He had wanted me to do something, and I didn't do it. I had disappointed him as a friend and colleague. He wouldn't look me in the eye. There were two other people present who obviously felt uncomfortable and started talking about the salty chocolate mousse. Phone ran out of money, so I couldn't get in touch with the person I was supposed to meet up with. Got home and started crying. My sister's roommate might think I am unstable. She might not be wrong.

London words

Yesterday I started working at the Tate Modern. And by work I mean run around, follow my own rules and tell people very personal things about myself. I started talking to two women about falling, being and wanting to be in love. I asked what they thought, or what their experience was. One of the women became flustered. The other woman looked at me and said shook her head. Then the woman started crying. Because I had no clue how to react, or how one was supposed to react to something like this, I just told her that everything would be alright. I sort of stroked her back a bit, in a desperate attempt to emphasize those obvious and supposedly soothing words. Of course I couldn't be sure, since I didn't know why she was crying and what her story was, but I figured it was almost always true. Unless of course the love of her life had just died and the chances of her ever finding anyone remotely as lovely are slim because she is an agoraphobe who is a mute who has an inherent fear of intimacy which took her former husband twenty years to break through. But let's not assume the worst. I am afraid most London days will be like this.

Break ups

Tonight a friend who had just been broken up with by his girlfriend abroad, was conflicted about whether or not to go see her. Either to make up or to say goodbye. Hearing about other people's break ups is painful. The things that are being said are always too familiar. Feelings are always conflicted. Words always become insufficient and meaningless. One moment they say it's definitely over, and then they send a text message saying: 'How are you doing, babe?' People are so scared of saying goodbye, they fool themselves into thinking they don't have to. Perhaps it's time for a universal break up flow chart.