La vie est belle

I am abed. I climbed in about an hour ago. The ceiling fan is turning, I have a window open, and am quite prepared to keep this up all night, if need be. I may even sleep like this.

French pop music circa 1935 popped up on YouTube after I requested Edith Piaf. Truth be told, my love of early 20th century Parisienne pop arose from the use of what were soon deemed illegal file sharing sites. My law school, which called itself, "The Global Law School," had about 25 percent of its spots guaranteed for foreign students. These foreign students were primarily European. On our shared network in family housing, you could store files. They weren't secure, these files. One or more of the foreign students, I learned from one of them, had created a place on the network for mp3s to share. I eagerly and greedily snapped up all I could. It led me to Kasey Chambers, made me fall in love with Townes Van Zandt, gave me dozens of songs I waltzed Leiney to sleep to each night. Most of all, it exposed me to obscure-at least to me-French pop music from the 1930s and 40s. And, so here I lay, some sort of beached whale, naked, dogs nearby, the ceiling fan turning, while Lucianne Boyer sings her sad songs. This would actually be tragic if I were sad. Or maybe it is tragic because I am not sad (at least not today), but instead feel listless and lost.

The fence is almost done. It is a thing to behold. Soon I can sit outside in the morning and sip coffee, while the dogs frolic freely in the yard below. The porch area is well covered, and the table Jenny placed out there sits neglected, a place that is used mostly by Grubhub drivers to shed their bounty, or is it my bounty and their detritus?