Sunday, November 27, 2011


A plate of beets, brussel sprouts, potatoes and mushrooms, a piece of bread, and an oxtail soup. The heavy wood chairs and tables, the image of cows being led to green pastures with their crown of flowers, surrounded by snow tipped mountains, the St. Bernard on the curtains and prints of early 20th century skiiers in their suits, framed. I sit in a cafe that feels like a mockery of my life, with friends and family eating together and bonding. It's just me and a cup of coffee staring at these artifacts of one culture juxtaposed in another culture that are never fully mine, contemplating yet again the shifting definitions. The glue, it likes to unstick.

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