33 Days: Day 3

DAY 3

Work commences.  Angela's plot to ask to work the best beach on Belle-Ile ($$) is thwarted by a fat, tan, competitive Belle-Ilois ice cream vendor who we later discover foots around the island on a moped like a gorilla in a cartoon.  He has a small, theoretically illegal stand (due to the law all vendors on the beach must be mobile, able to move at a moment's notice, and his stand is way too big for that) on the beach where he sells ice cream pretty much like ours but with a different brand name, soft drinks, etc. and makes a decent business so obviously he doesn't want us dipping into his profits.  Heated discussion ensues between him and Romu while all of us look on worriedly.  I don't really feel like leaving Angela there because I worry this fucker will give her shit (he has a lot of deadbeat-ish friends who hang around his stand and appear to have nothing to do besides harass another ice cream vendor should one decide to appear) but Romu assures us it will be o.k. and we leave Angela with her ice cream chariot, which has a big buoy-like thing attached to a metal frame with handles so that it can be pushed over the sand without too much effort.  I ask to be put on a smaller beach (less scary if there are less people to deal with, like I said, French isn't my native language) and find myself at a charming spot called Herlin, good sand and miniscule waves, perfect conditions for families who come to the beach with small children.  

In the end both Angela and I make practically nothing because there is no one there, the season hasn't really started yet.  I make the acquaintance of the lifeguard, David from Rennes, who has a really really red face and talks to me like we are both on some kind of sports team together, always trying to pep me up and giving me theatrical slaps on the shoulder.  I leave the beach at 6:30 p.m. and walk up the hill to the parking lot with no shoes since Romu assured me I wouldn't need my thongs on the beach and advised me to leave them in the van, on top of pushing the stupid fucking cart up the hill it's nice to have rocks stabbing into my feet.

Integration Disorder

schizophrenia ( /ˌskɪtsɵˈfrɛniə/ or /ˌskɪtsɵˈfriːniə/) is a mental disorder characterized by a disintegration of thought processes and of emotional responsiveness.^{(Courtesy of Wikipeida)}

^{Not too long ago, schizophrenia was renamed. Now it is called "integration disorder" in an apparent attempt to deal with the negative stigma.  George Carlin would probably have said, "No matter what you call it, it's still 'fucking crazy'."}

^{During another one of those talks over lunch, this time with families and at a park. Hadn't seen them for a while, not since the new addition.} 

^{We talked about being here, what it means, and how to deal with it. The difference. The difference between the image and the reality.} 

^{The image is of a very advanced and civil society. A doctor had remarked at how some papers had been published that dealt with renaming schizophrenia and how, wow, that place must really be ahead.} 

^{He then said, the same doctor who has never visited Japan, an obviously intelligent and 'qualified' individual, paused...and also couldn't help but notice that, for 'developed countries' (or whatever the current term is), Japan's got an amazingly high rate of polypharmacy, possibly leading the pack by a long, long way.}

^{When I heard this, I wanted to nod and pretend that I understood. But I asked for just a little bit more info.} 

^{To people in the field, the idea of coming up with a more refined term through a very thorough process and then to agree on "integration disorder" is kind of on the bi-polar opposite side of the spectrum from the practice of old-fashioned polypharmacy... a practice where medication is all lumped together without too much consideration given to the side-effects, etc.} 

At least that's how I thought I understood what he was saying. 

^{We'd been talking about crazy. And I'd wanted to reconfirm the chilling story he'd told, kind of out of the blue, last time we'd talked...}

^{Something almost unspeakably dark had happened.} 

^{"Could you tell it to me again?" I asked.} 

^{"Okay...here it is. Do you remember that guy..."} 

^{That's a story that I'm still figuring out how to relay because of what it could mean. Maybe in a few days. Fuck. Maybe...}

 

33 Days: Day 2

DAY 2

A ferry to Belle-Ile... 

We check into a decent campground next to Le Palais, the main town on the island. There are lots of trees in the campground and we are given a camp spot with no shade whatsoever; upon discussing with the lady at reception that seeing as we will be living there for a month it kind of busts our balls to have a spot which leaves our tent uninhabitable for half the day due to sun exposure, we are told that since we are seasonal workers and our tariff is lower than the other campers, we have no choice and that "it has been decided" by the powers that be that it should be like this.  

About Page: Redundant

 Almost Ten...

1. Emoticons: Not on a boat, not with a goat. I will not. But that's just me. Other people do it all the time and I actually believe that those modern day hieroglyphs add character to what people write. Those emoti-thing-ma-jigs just aren't my cup 'a tea.

2. Smilies (or Smileys): No. While those smilies are definitely an upgrade from their kissing cousin, the emoticon, I just would not, could not. Just ain't my style.

(Is it just me...or does the right side appear darker than the left?)

33 Days: Day 1

DAY 1

Pack shitloads of stuff into bags, subsequently into tiny-ass TGV (the French bullet train) storage spaces...

Three Horses for the Ride

Hardest thing is remembering...

 

"I'd needed to take three horses where we were going. Kind of nice, sleeping out under he stars. Three horses...that's how far and hard I had to ride. Herd had been let out to pasture and needed to be brought in. "

Yeah, I guess this was a roundup of sorts. Time to bring 'em all in. 

"When we got back and had them all together, one started to bloat. After a few days, it wasn't getting up. They said I could have it...you know, they didn't really know what they were doing."

"Neither do I."

33 Days: Prologue

The following is not mine in the sense that my decrepit hands and my dull mind are in no way skilled enough to have carried out such a task. 

In other words, I did not write it. No siree.

This collection of posts, thirty-three more or less, are the relaying of a story that has been passed along. 

Okay, here it is: