The second day of the Cannes film festival put me in the fog of sleep. All of my moving parts shut down. My eyelids kept closing. My head dropped continually. There was no use fighting it. I lay down and let the sleep I needed take me over. It was either that or start hallucinating. The noises outside my window continually reminded me that life was continuing out there without me. A day wasted is a day wasted, whether the sun is out or not. The birds continued to whip their aerodynamic bodies down the cavern that was my street — up and back, up and back. Pigeons landed and cooed, seagulls squawked at the day, just because.
Settling into this festival is a process of making continual mundane decisions. This screening or that. Sleep now or later. Eat out or eat in. What is the best use of the limited time available? I’d gone to the market earlier and picked up a crude collection of items to “cook” back at the flat. A can of whole peeled tomatoes, salt and pepper, Herbes de Provence. Spaghetti. That was dinner. A glass of red wine closed out the night. Instead of TV I watch the birds speeding by my window, crying, screaming, fighting for territory, mates or food.