Wet and grey but warmer this morning (why does the weather always come first to mind?) Just finished working which included thinking about the choices for the cover of my new collection of poems, The Hotel Eden, to be published by the British poetry press, Carcanet, at the end of next coming summer. Which means the manuscript needs to be done by the beginning of January, a daunting feeling, because of course the Ms will never be done. But you just have to grit your teeth and let go of it. (I'm having the same problem with my Baudelaire Ms for Seagull Books, don't want to let go, because it's so far from what I want it to be, which is, naturally, and impossibly, up to Baudelaire's original. Actually I think my Ponge book and my Apollinaire book were up to the originals, but Baudelaire is a different kettle of fish, partly because of the form, mostly sonnets, but in any case rhymed and metred.)
Plans for the rest of the day. Supermarket shopping, for the stuff my husband doesn't find in the local covered market a block away: Scotch, yoghurt, grated cheese, olive oil...want to go right after lunch because the lines won't be so long and I won't feel so grumpy and on the qui vive for that inevitable Parisian phenomenon: the line-jumper.
Then, maybe the Bon Marche to look for a shawl or something to throw on the clunky Ikea sofa we bought to distract your eye from its clunkiness. It was cheap and the right length.
Then I have a ticket for an event called Blabla at the Centre Pompidou, a kind of play whose script, if I get it, is a collage of people talking about nothing.
Like me here.