floral print, talking to myself, and french pop

When I was little I would sit on the bricks next to our mailbox in my Easter dress and turn the pages of my Beatrix Potter books pretending to read. Come to think of it, it’s kind of odd that I even had an Easter dress since I’m pretty sure we never went to services and all the Easter egg hunts that did go down seemed like pretty casual affairs. The thing was that I couldn’t read, and so the words coming out of my mouth bore absolutely no resemblance to the ones actually there on the page. I would sit out there by our curb for hours.

Thus, my affinity for French music. Or more specifically, French lyrics. Like everyone still capable of sight and sound I happen to like pretty music and pretty pictures. But what I really love is being able to come up with my own story for them. Or even letting them go without so that the words become just one more sound, one more line in the drawing. When you don’t have the words a melancholy voice can be made to say nearly anything.

So the songs never have to be sad and Peter Rabbit never has to get caught by Farmer John.