georges perec

These last days it has become clear once again: the camelias are out pink,red,white,sticky fat juicy flowers reminding us of a dame in the 19th century dying of consumption in the arms of her lover,who left her because of a difference in social standard.How do we buy social standard these days in ireland with loads of CASH.I am homesick for georges Perec and les choses,the things,a book full of stuff enumerating useless stuff crap people obsessed with stuff .Spondoliks as WH used to call money.Money much needed that we do not want to think about.What about Georges Perec?I could have met him twice but i stayed home and hung in front of my tall parisian windows dreaming...I had not read W and life a users manual then, otherwise i would have rushed to meet him in Le train bleu and eat raw steak with him,his favoured dish.I stood in front of his tombstone in the sunshine and read the names on it: his aunt and georges himself were the only ones buried there.he hardly survived her,dying at the age of 46.I would like to have a much needed conversation with him NOW.Georges?Oui Judith? C'est quoi qui te rends le plus malheureux, c'est quoi qui te fais vraiment peur?Can we go and live under a bridge and drink absinthe ,or shall we continue to steal the eggs from other peoples nests so we can write and sing and write and die young...ou plutot non?