flyingblogspot.com (tales from urban dilettantia)

This is a weird little story for you, apropos of nothing.

Before beginning, I ought to mention that I think I’ve seen the film.  It begins by setting the scene.  There’s a woman, on leave from her place of work.  She and her best friend spend the days studying, writing, smoking, drinking coffee, reading and talking philosophy.  They are productive, and for the most part, quiet.  It is a bright, clear winter.  I’ve heard the soundtrack; a little post-rock, a little eerie, a suggestion of distance.

And then, a postcard arrives in the mail, not to her house, but to her ex-husband’s address.  The name’s nearly hers – one letter out, and the same as her dead grandmother’s.  It’s written in French, postmarked Paris, and talks about a family gathering at a cafe a short drive down the coast.  She wonders.

This is a weird little true story.  I only know the first part.