Tag Archives: french

Art Journal- My Other Half and Paris




While I daydream of Laduree, cobble stone streets and delectable macarons on a warm afternoon in class, the other half of me was left behind this morning, dozing in bed, perpetually asleep. I’m half here and half there but never truly anywhere. One half longs for Paris, the other for a warm blanket covering my tired bones as the rain washes my windows clean, because oh who am I kidding, when would I ever bother to do it myself?


La langue morte

C’est ma malédiction d’apprendre les langues que je ne peut jamais parler avec une autre.  Les langues commes les coeurs sont incomplets sans quelqu’un pour les partager avec. Si je parle les phrases avec tendresse qui peut me répondre aussi douce?

Alors les mots meurent sur me lèvres et le silence est plus forte que ma voix tremper dans la cadence de français. C’est pour cette raison que je tient ma langue et mon français devient inutile. Tristement, il n’y a personne qui peut comprendre cette perte. J’espere qu’un jour je vais la rencontrer encore mais maintenant je dois dire adieu.


A week of exams had me left deflated through out, with a severe lack of motivation to study when all I really wanted to do was read A Clash of Kings and watch Game of Thrones. Yet I suppose Tyrion Lannister’s words never seemed better fit for life than now:

 “A mind needs books as a sword needs a whetstone, if it is to keep its edge.”

By far one of my favourite quotes from a book, it has led me to think of exams in a different albeit greatly dramatized perspective, more or less to make it seem worthwhile as I question their necessity…



There are battles and wars fought with swords and gunfire, skilled in bodily strength but there are trials and tribulations to test the mind as well. They are now, in modern times, called examinations.

It is known how wars are not won in a single day but by fighting many battles and triumphing. Examinations, it can be said, are a war of their own in which our plethora of subjects ranging from arithmetic to psychology serves as battles.

Just as swords are sharpened on stone, so too is a mind with the aid of books. Knowledge is a powerful and complex weapon, you see. It can win wars just as well, perhaps better, than a spear through an enemy’s eye.

Armed to conquer mathematics we wield swords of logarithms and formulae of circumference and integration. Against, literary theory we load our crossbows and let it slip arrows showering terms of ‘binary opposition’, ‘polymorphously perverse children’ and ‘ostranenie’  like fire upon a battle field. Wearing armour doused and oiled in ‘electric potential’, ‘escape velocity’ and ‘restitution coefficient’, we shield ourselves against physics. With these abstract weapons and shields, we go off to defeat exam after exam, slaying biology, french and chemistry alike… or perhaps they slay us.

In the end, we come out as victors or the overthrown. I hope the victors do not aggrandize their conquests nor that the overthrown diminish their capabilities.


Because they are inevitably meant to fight more wars, years to comes, term after term with the coming and going of pleasant summers and foul winters.

It is my solemn hope that we do not lose track of what we are truly (or perhaps somewhat falsely) fighting for.

Our future. Our fate.

2015 Goals

I don’t want a year long resolution to cloud over the next 12 months and remind me how terrible I am at honouring said resolutions so I thought it would be better to have little goals and hallmarks along the way. A sprint is better than a race, I feel.

These goals may not be much but they are definitely things I would love to do in the next year. Small goals, after all bolster confidence for larger ones.

Here it goes…

1. Read a French novel. (And write more in french before I lose my handle over grammar and vocabulary when I’m old.)

2. Make playlists of non-mainstream artists only. (Hopefully this effort will help me branch out in terms of my music taste.)

3. Go makeup free for a month. (Social experiments where people go without a touch of makeup for a significant period of time seems to teach people to love their face as it is. We could all use some of that love.)

4. Learn Spanish. (I’ve conquered three and a half languages so far, now let’s make it an even number.)

5. Make a ‘rememberlution’ jar and fill it with any and every positive occurrence through out twenty fifteen.

6. Try to be better with cash. (Although this one I’m skeptical of.)

Fingers crossed.


Mon Dieu

 Mon dieu!

Français est une langue compliquée

Je ne peux pas l’expliquée

Questions?  J’ai beaucoup

Réponses…pas du tout

Il y a trop de conjugations

Pour moi, ce sont des complications

Futur, passé récent, subjonctif…

Où doit-il placer l’adjectif?

Après ou avant le nom?

Je ne sais pas, donc

J’écris mes mots, pêle mêle

En interrogative, où va il et elle?

Pourquoi il y a masculin et feminin

Pour lets mot comme magasin?

Est-ce-qu’il y a un chapeau

Dans le mot gâteau?

Mon dieu!

C’est trop de grammaire

Je veux laissez le faire

Quand je parle

Je parle très bien

Mes professeurs

Ne me dit rien

Mais dans l’examen

Si je n’ utilise pas le futur proche

Ils me grondent

Mon papier sans de coches

“Écris un poème,

Dialogue ou histoire.”

Ils ne savent pas

Que c’est mon cauchemar

Je ne peux pas écrire

Et je suis peur qu’ils vont rire

Parce que tu ne sais pas moi

Je suis différent que toi

“Mon dieu!”

Mais ce n’est pas trop triste

Je suis juste dyslexique

Si je ne peux pas lire

Les livres et les écrire

C’est d’accord, parce que je sais

Comment parler en français


I’d entered a French creative writing event at university and won second place for a short story I’d written called Camille. Unfortunately, I handed in the story and didn’t keep a copy for myself so I thought I’d convert whatever I remember from it into a flash fiction.


Un homme, Monsieur Baudelaire, qui habite pres d’une boutique de fleurs  la visite tous les jours pour acheter une bouquet. La floriste lui reconnais et lui donne des fleurs-de-lis comme toujours et chaque jour, ell voit Monsieur Baudelaire marche vers sa maison. Mais elle ne sait pas qu’actuellement il va au cimitiere ou sa femme Camille reste. Parce qu’il ne peut pas oublier.

Les Visages

Je suis peur que j’oublie

Tous les bons temps

Tous les temps quand on rit

C’est nul maintenant


Je ne suis pas seul ici

Mes memoires ne sont pas claire

Mes amies oublient aussi

Il n’y a rien qu’on peut faire


Et je pense, d’accord c’est la vie

Mais pour vivre, il faut payer le prix


Je regarde la photographe, decue

Mes proches m’ont donner courage

Tristement, il y a presque rien pour moi

Ce sont juste les visages