Coffee with
Helene Cixous on what must be the banks of some river more important. We speak in
muffled tones, in
fluent french and
broken english. The setting sun is only everything I can see. Barely an outline. Such a roar. This
coffee tastes like something else, and in that
dreamishly qualified way, its no matter.
Suddenly she is shouting and reading and laughing and it's all very surreal. It is how nothing has ever been said.
Mais, il me rends comme les pleurs.
Ecriture feminine indeed Helene.
This is all rather rudely interrupted by a disembodied voice informing me that
Elton John spent well over four hundred thousand dollars on flowers in a year. What can be said?
The man likes his flowers.