"Right here, right here, ladies and gentlemen, be the-""And I say, Jean Roublais was not as, well, Roubl-""-but she's not exactly the kind of woman you'd want to associate with, now, is she? Well, I for one will-""Monsieur? Mada-""-and she said, "Penny for your thoughts?" Hahahaha! The looney- I tell you when she-""-the pawnbroker, er, Monsieur Chatillard, or was it Cotillard? He's gonna kill you.""What did you say, friend? I couldn't hear you over the sound of the-""Car!"*HOOOOOOOOOOOONK*"Whoa there, milady, you almost got flattened the-""You really should be more mindful of your surroundings...."
Mindful... Mindful... Mindful...
Mindfulness is an art few of us people have. Most are born deaf and blind to the world around them, thinking that everything revolves around themselves; hence, a lack of caution, or at the very least respect. Only the humble may truly be mindful, only they who think nothing of themselves can see how the clocks tick, how the stream flows, and how that other car is about to hit Lady Robucha-wait, no, she got away.
Oh, but no, I am not one of the humble; I am only one who knows how the world works, a....well, a metaphysicist, perhaps? But the opinion of the family is that I'm not the philosopher among us, that my skills are more curtailed to the world in which I currently work: the theater.
Or rather, the world in which I currently want to work: no shows seem to need me at the moment, and so I am forced to subsist on the meager restitution of waiting tables. And believe me when I say that the restitution is meager: I deliver my customers food, why could they not at the very least deliver me some respect? Or do they want to deserve having their buttered vegetables smushed upon their faces? And the fame-or, rather, the lack of it. *sigh* Like I said, I am not of the humble, but I do wish that the pride I have in myself could be shown to be deserved-or rather, could be shown at all. But alas, this peacock (with a vagina) hath no mates to show his (her) feathers too.
Anyway, here passes another interesting group of people. Time, once again, to activate the Caron-de-Chanterelle powers of observation! Perhaps one of them could be my big break....
(Leslie is sitting on a bench by an old fountain in Chanterelle's city square, expecting nothing but disappointment. For two years' worth of nights has she been wishing on the Barony of the Dead Carons (a little blue star by the northwest corner of the sky, so named because it seems to grow every time a Caron, or a friend of the Carons, dies), wishing for her miraculous "big break" to just, well, pop in like a miracle. But nothing happens in the city of Chanterelle like a miracle: everything always happens as one would expect them to. That's why Chanterelle was named after the mushroom: as the places from whence the eponymous mushrooms grow are often where, once emptied, they're expected to grow again ('unless they're not', said the official note on the subject, as written by the city's founders. In fact, the city was founded whilst its founders were perpetually drunk, so the circumstances of the city's naming isn't actually all that clear....).
Her waiting passes; her break ends. She returns to work at the Cafe des Partisans with a sad smile painted on her face; sad because once again her dreams did not come true, and smiling because....because she's strange that way? Or perhaps because her work demands it-at certain points in her story, you see, she does things rather insensibly. Perhaps this is because of her impulsive nature, which seems to manifest now, as she shouts, "I QUIT!" to her manager.
Wait, she quits her job? That wasn't what fate planned for her! Oh dear, I believe her story will now require a rewrite...)
Oh fuck it, you know what? I think I'm gonna be a street performer. Perhaps then I'd be stickier to miracles.
(The next day, Leslie returns to the fountain, guitar-en-case in hand (or on back, as it's slung around her back like....a guitar in its case?). She frees her guitar, lets rest on the ground her case, and, after a bit of tuning, starts singing. She sings fairly, although not especially so: the songs she sing, some modern pop songs, don't seem to fit her voice. Deep, brooding, and traditional chansons would perhaps be better for her, though she doesn't seem to know this. But still, she's getting quite the bank of tips: the beauty of her composure is making up for her voice's awkwardness)
Mindful... Mindful... Mindful...
Mindfulness is an art few of us people have. Most are born deaf and blind to the world around them, thinking that everything revolves around themselves; hence, a lack of caution, or at the very least respect. Only the humble may truly be mindful, only they who think nothing of themselves can see how the clocks tick, how the stream flows, and how that other car is about to hit Lady Robucha-wait, no, she got away.
Oh, but no, I am not one of the humble; I am only one who knows how the world works, a....well, a metaphysicist, perhaps? But the opinion of the family is that I'm not the philosopher among us, that my skills are more curtailed to the world in which I currently work: the theater.
Or rather, the world in which I currently want to work: no shows seem to need me at the moment, and so I am forced to subsist on the meager restitution of waiting tables. And believe me when I say that the restitution is meager: I deliver my customers food, why could they not at the very least deliver me some respect? Or do they want to deserve having their buttered vegetables smushed upon their faces? And the fame-or, rather, the lack of it. *sigh* Like I said, I am not of the humble, but I do wish that the pride I have in myself could be shown to be deserved-or rather, could be shown at all. But alas, this peacock (with a vagina) hath no mates to show his (her) feathers too.
Anyway, here passes another interesting group of people. Time, once again, to activate the Caron-de-Chanterelle powers of observation! Perhaps one of them could be my big break....
(Leslie is sitting on a bench by an old fountain in Chanterelle's city square, expecting nothing but disappointment. For two years' worth of nights has she been wishing on the Barony of the Dead Carons (a little blue star by the northwest corner of the sky, so named because it seems to grow every time a Caron, or a friend of the Carons, dies), wishing for her miraculous "big break" to just, well, pop in like a miracle. But nothing happens in the city of Chanterelle like a miracle: everything always happens as one would expect them to. That's why Chanterelle was named after the mushroom: as the places from whence the eponymous mushrooms grow are often where, once emptied, they're expected to grow again ('unless they're not', said the official note on the subject, as written by the city's founders. In fact, the city was founded whilst its founders were perpetually drunk, so the circumstances of the city's naming isn't actually all that clear....).
Her waiting passes; her break ends. She returns to work at the Cafe des Partisans with a sad smile painted on her face; sad because once again her dreams did not come true, and smiling because....because she's strange that way? Or perhaps because her work demands it-at certain points in her story, you see, she does things rather insensibly. Perhaps this is because of her impulsive nature, which seems to manifest now, as she shouts, "I QUIT!" to her manager.
Wait, she quits her job? That wasn't what fate planned for her! Oh dear, I believe her story will now require a rewrite...)
Oh fuck it, you know what? I think I'm gonna be a street performer. Perhaps then I'd be stickier to miracles.
(The next day, Leslie returns to the fountain, guitar-en-case in hand (or on back, as it's slung around her back like....a guitar in its case?). She frees her guitar, lets rest on the ground her case, and, after a bit of tuning, starts singing. She sings fairly, although not especially so: the songs she sing, some modern pop songs, don't seem to fit her voice. Deep, brooding, and traditional chansons would perhaps be better for her, though she doesn't seem to know this. But still, she's getting quite the bank of tips: the beauty of her composure is making up for her voice's awkwardness)
