Sarah Demeuse:
“Mardi,” you say, “like Mardi Gras. You know: New Orleans, Rio, Samba….” You want to add Bakhtin, and a critique of meat-centric religiosity but you don’t. The clerk looks at you, fills in the FIRST NAME blank. And continues: “Color of Eyes? Hair?” You have brown eyes and dark brown hair that is slightly thinning, despite the wonder shampoos that line the rim of your bathtub. When you had a headful of lush hair you rebelled against your name and undermined your parent’s failed creativity. You went strictly vegan. Your love of anything diary and cured meats quickly called you back to omnivorism. Last night you had pork belly. This morning a cheese omelet—a little too runny for your taste.
“Excuse me! Do I have to repeat everything? When exactly did you lose your driver’s license?” You don’t know (you don’t really drive and avoid the wheel as much as possible). Could be anywhere between last March and yesterday. Who checks the thing on a daily basis anyway? So you take a wild guess to make things proceed: “Friday before last.”
