Wednesday, May 4
11:11 p.m. In Tennessee, Interstate 81 turns into I-40, the Shins taking us there, and we sing “oo-oo-oo-oo-oo” with the band. This Wednesday afternoon, the roads are liquid with heat, and my eight gold bangles shine, hot, on brown skin. Just past Knoxville, thoughts of lunch in Farragut.
We drove up and down the road and were about to consign ourselves to the dismal ABC Market to pick through what would undoubtedly be a dusty selection of prepackaged foods when we saw, off to the left, a nondescript store front, white sans serif letters on brown brick, spelling out CHEESE SHOP. Miracle words. We eased into the left lane toward the chorus of angels.
Local Sweet Valley cheeses in the bag, we followed the shopgirl’s directions up the road a mile to the giant Target, with its giant grocery store. Inside, the singular blinding awesome white of the suburban megastore. The aisles were wide and clear, the linoleum shiny, the shelves piled high with gorgeous produce and giant boxes of cereal. Like savages emerging from the forest to find themselves on the set of “Supermarket Sweep,” we cradled bags of apples and oranges, grapes, tomatoes, a massive cucumber, even a small watermelon labeled “personal.” Every day a French lesson. Watermelon, la pastèque.
A red dress and red shoes are just right for a picnic, as are the green lawns and sparkling creek up the road at the little Farragut library. Maud’d brought not one but two knives, all the better for three hungry girls. A sharp Tennessee cheddar, a creamy buttermilk cheese, perfect avocados. Strawberries in season tasted like a sunny day.
We lay about in the sun while the leaves rustled above us. And it felt good to be hot and still.
The interstate all the way to Nashville. Blah blah highway. Truckers lean thick, hairy arms on windowsills. We are the best-looking team on I-40.
11:11 p.m. In Tennessee, Interstate 81 turns into I-40, the Shins taking us there, and we sing “oo-oo-oo-oo-oo” with the band. This Wednesday afternoon, the roads are liquid with heat, and my eight gold bangles shine, hot, on brown skin. Just past Knoxville, thoughts of lunch in Farragut.
We drove up and down the road and were about to consign ourselves to the dismal ABC Market to pick through what would undoubtedly be a dusty selection of prepackaged foods when we saw, off to the left, a nondescript store front, white sans serif letters on brown brick, spelling out CHEESE SHOP. Miracle words. We eased into the left lane toward the chorus of angels.
Local Sweet Valley cheeses in the bag, we followed the shopgirl’s directions up the road a mile to the giant Target, with its giant grocery store. Inside, the singular blinding awesome white of the suburban megastore. The aisles were wide and clear, the linoleum shiny, the shelves piled high with gorgeous produce and giant boxes of cereal. Like savages emerging from the forest to find themselves on the set of “Supermarket Sweep,” we cradled bags of apples and oranges, grapes, tomatoes, a massive cucumber, even a small watermelon labeled “personal.” Every day a French lesson. Watermelon, la pastèque.
A red dress and red shoes are just right for a picnic, as are the green lawns and sparkling creek up the road at the little Farragut library. Maud’d brought not one but two knives, all the better for three hungry girls. A sharp Tennessee cheddar, a creamy buttermilk cheese, perfect avocados. Strawberries in season tasted like a sunny day.
We lay about in the sun while the leaves rustled above us. And it felt good to be hot and still.
The interstate all the way to Nashville. Blah blah highway. Truckers lean thick, hairy arms on windowsills. We are the best-looking team on I-40.
Labels: Travel: Road trip USA
posted by stellou at 1:27 AM
2 Comments:
You can say "melon d'eau" as well, as they say in Great Britain
05 mai 2005
Houellebecq, bientôt
Qu'on se le dise : le prochain roman de Michel Houellebecq sera l'évènement de la prochaine rentrée littéraire. Qu'on le veuille ou non. Il y a quelque chose de déprimant à observer un phénomène d'ordre littéraire (en principe) ainsi promis au succès programmé de manière quasi obligatoire, mais c'est ainsi. De toute façon, à ce stade là, on est déjà dans le phénomène de société.
Donc, ce nouveau livre, qui paraîtra simultanément dans plusieurs pays d'Europe, le 1 er septembre (au risque de ce cogner à sa biographie-choc que le journaliste du Point Denis Demonpion publiera au même moment) sera "aussi triste" que les Particules élémentaires, ses deux personnages principaux seront deux types très moyens âgés de 30 et 60 ans relevant d'une humanité très moyenne, et l'histoire nagera dans les eaux troubles des sectes puisque l'auteur s'est documenté sur le sujet avant de se lancer dans l'écriture.
Tout cela ne sera pas démenti (en principe) car c'est lui qui l'a dit à un journal espagnol, tout en regrettant "un peu" au passage ses déclarations d'il y a quelques années sur l'Islam ("la religion la plus con du monde" etc). Comme quoi, ces fameuses opinions, il les avaient bien exprimées alors qu'à son proçès, malgré les preuves accablantes il avait prétendu qu'on l'avait fait boire pour lui extorquer une vraie-fausse interwiew dans laquelle il n'avait d'ailleurs pas dit ce qu'on prétendait qu'il avait dit.
Mais si c'est si loin, tout ce bruit, et l'attribution du prix Goncourt 2005 est si proche ...
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