This week, I find myself lost in the French country side – not really unusual or surprising considering it’s a semestral homecoming rather than a one-off holiday.
The typical day here in the comfy family house is not really exciting but weirdly productive in a way. In a week here, I have already read two books, made a skirt, watch films, baked, cooked, took multiple walks and one trip to the local shopping centre – by local, I mean nearest, by nearest, I mean about 40 minutes by car from the tiny village where I came to get lost; and by shopping centre, I mean supermarket accompanied by a few shops.
What was surprising is that, in that ersatz of a shopping centre, I found a lot of vinyls. And what surprised me even more was that the selection of vinyls carried by the supermarket was basically the perfect rebel and weirdo’s choice. One of the most incongruous LP was NWA – you know because most people around here are likely to be oldish white farmers – but I guess there is no frontier to outrage against police violence and racism.
So inspired by all the rural rebels and misfits, today, I’m listening to NWA’s Fuck Tha Police (1988).