So proud of myself--I had a phone conversation in French today, with someone at l'Alliance Francais, about taking the de Gaulle course instead of the literature class. I'm more interested in de Gaulle, though that's C-level, and I'm B-level, as is the lit class.
I listen fairly often to La marche de l'histoire podcasts on my phone. I understand between 40 and 70 percent, depending on the subject and how fast the guests speak. I was thinking last month or so that La march is just too hard for me, and I was listening to a show about Sainte Catherine de Sienne, and she didn't eat, and I was thinking to myself, Sounds like Simone Weil, and two seconds later, the host said, Like Simone Weil.
So.
I guess I can follow, at least some.
The Untimely Death of Stonewall Jackson
The Woman Who Could Not
Take It Any More felt very very very very sorry for herself. The Woman Who
Could Not Take It knows she is her own enemy, but not her own worst. That
distinction set aside for old bosses. It wasn't that she didn't blame herself
too. She imagines conversations with said bosses, none of which would end well,
with power on her side. But that is not what this is about. This is about the
$12,000 retail monthly medicine. And the dead friend who floats into her mind
and stays and then leaves. There were no regrets when she died. But now.

She is alive in it.
She
is a slave to her emotions in it. Despite: Buspar (generic), Effexor (generic) and
Remeron (generic). She is one of those people who digs deep into her backpack
in public. Sometimes she calls it a knapsack, knowing that she is speaking from the wrong place and time. Rucksack. She has rescue medicine for her skin, her lungs, her brain--or wherever
the emotions are seated. Some said it was the uterus, of which she
is still a proud owner.
How can she feel so young
so alone when she has grown old?
The people who are worse
off are already dead.
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