The things I only do in secret.

So, I have the apartment to myself for the whole weekend. I know, this massive apartment, so much space, so empty, what ever am I going to do? Okay, I'm kidding, obviously. Marc going home for the weekend is the equivalent of one shoe being removed from a shoebox. As in, yes, I'm alone but it's still a shoebox.

On the plus side, this means I can do retarded things. Like right now, I am eating a a hot cheese and pepperoni sandwich. Yup. It's good. And for lunch, I got to eat all of the leftovers in the fridge, even though as a meal, all those leftovers didn't make coherent sense. But it doesn't matter, because as long as I'm happy, it's fine! And I can listen to whatever music I want to. Dance around to ABBA? Yes, please. Blast some Enrique Iglesias? Oh, you know it. And now I'm drinking sangria mixed with Sprite and lemon juice, another thing I would only do by myself. I mean, in all social honesty, sangria is already basically made of extra fruit and wine. You shouldn't really be adding anything else to it. But I happen to really enjoy my sangria when it's mixed with Sprite, and since I'm all alone, I can do whatever I want! Whoo.

Oh, and my alone time doesn't stop there. I even went so far as to go splurge on a face mask and nail polish today so I can have a proper spa evening. In preparation for this evening, I bought a bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau (a limited edition French wine that comes out once a year) and downloaded some Grey's Anatomy episodes. Now, I've never watched Grey's Anatomy. Shocking, yes? I mean, from what I hear, the show has everything that I need: beautiful people, doctors, and beautiful people that also happen to be doctors. So what better time to start becoming addicted to it than with my face mask and beaujolais?

On a different note, I have spent the last 3 weeks convinced that today was Thanksgiving. Then today, my lovely sister informs me that Thanksgiving is, in fact, next week. Yes. I found out about my mistake after I had already started making myself bread pudding for breakfast to celebrate the holiday. Oh well, I guess that means I'll just be having more bread pudding in a week! Can't have too much bread pudding.

I could probably expound the brilliance of my alone time some more, but I know that I am only enjoying it because it won't last forever. I can enjoy it because it is finite. If there was no end to my alone time in sight, then I would be a pretty sad bear. But Marc will be back on Sunday, and then the wave of visitors will be continuous until I go back home.

Oh, I can't wait for Christmas. Maybe it is the American (although I am a pretty terrible American, mixing up the dates for Thanksgiving and all) in me, but the holiday season has already begun. It appeals to the side of me that loves taking care of people. Christmas means I can bake cookies and buy presents and cook big dinners. I love it.

Alright, Grey's Anatomy calls, as does my nail polish and henna. Did I not mention the henna before? Oh yes, I have henna. I could paint my nails and tattoo myself all night if I wanted.

Suffering From Suffrage.

--On Friday night, California Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger told a raucous crowd in Columbus, Ohio, that Obama needs to beef up his policy plans.

"He needs to do something about those skinny legs ... make him do some squats. ... If we could only do something about putting some meat on his ideas," he said to loud cheers.

The GOP governor introduced McCain at the rally, said the Arizona senator "is built like a rock" and called him a "real action hero."--

That was just too funny for me not to post it. I've been more quiet (comparatively) about this election than I usually am about my political views. That's because I see two things in this election: blind hope and blind fear. People will vote for Obama out of blind hope that he will suddenly change the United States. People will vote for McCain out of blind fear that the country will go socialist otherwise and that we will become militarily weak without him. Who can support either of those?

Both candidates scare me, that's for sure. Why doesn't anyone else think that it's frightening when a man has built up such a cult of personality that he can give a rally in Berlin (even though Germany is not the country he's running for political office in) to 200,000 people, most of whom have absolutely no idea what his actual policy is or even what he is saying, for that matter. It just smells a little too dictator-esque for my liking. Also, it is a wonderful point to bring up that we are spending 10 billion dollars a month in Iraq. That is disgraceful. Good job, Obama, on asking people how many schools and hospitals and scholarships we could get out of that money if we weren't spending it on poorly planned military action. But wait a second. Obama? Hasn't your campaign raised more money than any other campaign in history? And didn't your campaign raise a record $150 million in the month of September alone, to be used for 30 minute long T.V. ad campaigns and to pay the salaries of your enormous campaign team? How many hospitals could THAT money build? How many foreclosed homes could be bought and given back to families with THAT money? Oh Obama, you're a tricky one.

And John McCain...a real action hero? Did you know that a 73 year old man whose neck skin sags could be considered to be "built like a rock"? Come on guys. This is just getting ridiculous. I know you think it's all cutesy, Sarah Palin, to talk like "real folks!" talk. But we're not stupid, Republican party. We don't need you to all put on your best Midwestern farmer's accent and talk to us about baseball and being a hockey mom. That's not what I want to hear about and that's not how I want to be talked to. Also, accusing the Democrats of wanting to turn the country socialist? Where did you pull that one out of? It is probably the worst piece of rhetoric you could have thrown into the American lexicon. Now "enemy" and "socialist" can become one in the same again. Good going. And let's entirely disregard the fact that many socialist nations are some of the most stable in the world. Socialism isn't just Hugo Chavez's word vomit, John McCain. No, it is universal healthcare, like you find in most of Europe. It is universal education, which means that EVERYONE has the chance to go to college without having to worry about footing a $50,000 a year tuition bill. Now, I'm no socialist, but come on, Sarah Palin. Socialism is not the enemy. Fear-inducing neo-conservative dialogue and divisive politics are.

I have already voted in the elections, I mailed in my absentee ballot last week. The first election I've ever been able to vote in. And yeah, I voted for Bob Barr.

Writing about writing.

What to do on a sleepless night in Paris? Well, update my blog, I guess.

I sleep all day and write all night. That's not 100% true, but it's mostly true. It's more like I sleep too late, go buy food or go to cathedrals or go look at clothes I can't afford, then make dinner and spend the rest of the evening writing, ripping out pages, scratching out and adding things all over the place, and eventually I fall into bed.

It's a schedule that's working out really well for me, in fact. Although maybe being so absorbed in my writing makes me a little bit of a strange person when I set out into the rest of the world. Oh well.

What am I writing? Everything. I write what I see, what I know. I write who I know. My inspiration is always so obvious, I think. I sit down to write fiction and inevitably realize that the character I'm writing bears a certain resemblance (and by that I mean entirely similar) to someone that I know. I sit down to write poetry and volumes about Paris, about living in a city, about those that I miss, just pour out. I can't separate myself and my circumstances from my writing. I'm not saying that I write simple accounts of everything that happens to me. The events are fiction, the stories are stories. But they all come from inside of me, from what I know and who I am. Maybe that makes me less talented than people who can write objectively, who can write and entirely exclude themselves from the process. But maybe it also makes me and what I write a little bit more real, too.

The things I will miss when I leave Paris: my alone time and French baked goods.

Oh, and also half-bottles of wine in restaurants for 5 euros. I'll miss that, too.

You know, I don't know what on Earth I am doing with my life. Not a clue. Honestly.

I lost my job. I feel like an old man sitting on my porch with a pipe in my mouth. Sitting around complaining about the economy and how bread was actually affordable when I was younger.

I was given a good amount of money by someone that doesn't even know me. I was at church and they found a way to anonymously give me the money, saying that God told them they should give me the entire contents of their pocket because it was more than money for me, it was hope.

They were right. I am so happy to have my faith. A year ago, without the faith I have now, I was so much emptier, so much more unfulfilled, so much more lost. I can't say I am perfectly happy now because I am not. Times are hard (and that's an understatement). But having that soft pillow of faith to lay my head down on when life gets me down and to have that beacon of hope to give thanks to when life is miraculous...I wouldn't trade that for anything.

Yesterday, after I lost my job, I sat on the Metro with my headphones on, crying my eyes out. Today, I couldn't tell the difference between tears and raindrops on my face. And yet...and yet, I'm sitting here now, listening to ABBA and trying to figure out how to be happy again. I know I'll figure it out.

The World Is Full Of Diamonds

I have a neighbor somewhere very close to my apartment that loves reggaeton. But not all reggaeton...oh no, a variety of songs would be too much to ask for. Just the same song over and over again, whether it's 11 PM on a Friday or 9 AM on a Sunday. And all I can here through the walls is the beat of the song and it gives me horrible flashbacks to reggaeton dances in college shows. So now I'm doing my best to blast The Cardigans (oh, so that's where the title to this post came from!) and pretend that Wisin y Yandel don't actually live next door.

Life is slow in a nice kind of way. Not much money, but not too many cares in the world either. I went out today and walked around the city for awhile, enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. I mean, really, 60s and sunny? No winter coats or even scarves yet? Then I went to a book reading at Shakespeare and Co.. Saw an interesting author, a Brit named Tobias Hill. He writes a bunch of historical thrillers which I really don't care about but he writes interesting poetry. If you're in London, you should bother to read his poetry collection all about London. It's nice and rhythmic. Echo-like.

I'm hoping to get a day job on Wednesdays tutoring this girl in English. Just that tiny bit of supplemental income could make all the difference. I'm actually quite enjoying the job I already have though. The kids are actually adorable and can be a lot of fun, even though it is difficult to run around in a park with a 6 month old baby on one hip while trying to sword fight a two year old with a stick with the other hand.

I often wonder if we perhaps all want too much. We are all only capable of doing so much and there is a reason for that. We cannot make every single moment electrically happy. We cannot expect every single person to be world-shaking and life-changing for us. And continually throwing ourselves against the world with all of these hopes and dreams and desires will only cause us to shatter. Sometimes I feel like we just need to stop throwing ourselves. We need to stop thinking that our lives must play out like those that do on film. We need to get rid of that romantic fantasy that life must be all kisses on top of the Eiffel Tower and long-lost friends running into each other's arms on wind-swept heaths in England or whatever other Bronte-like fairy tale you can come up with. It doesn't have to be like that. And I think that life gets angry when we tell it what it has to be. Life doesn't like to be pigeon-hold and bossed around like that. Life revolts if you try to force it too hard.

So yes, still my heart and hold my tongue (thanks, Coldplay). Kicking and screaming our way through life is no way to live. Being bitter about our circumstances is only being bitter at ourselves. Because maybe you can't control your relationships or your job or who you meet or anything. But you can control how you deal with those things. To me, it looks like sitting back, breathing, and smiling again is the way to deal. Not worrying. Not crying. Not fighting. Just being.

You can say you're going to read all of these books, you can say you're going to pay your bills on time, you can say you'll drink less, you can say you'll keep in touch, but will you? Probably not. Oh because resolutions, they come and go. So the best you can do is smile at what you have, smile at what you are, and fully love those that you have while you have them. (yes, this post is ending while I'm listening to Jamie Cullum. I've been so musically eclectic in these last 10 minutes, huh?).

If you look at your cards in just the right light, I think you might find that you haven't been dealt such a bad hand after all.

Ennui.

A sleepy day in Paris. I woke up today at 8:00 a.m., the first time I have been up since before 11:00 since arriving in Paris. I packed myself onto the Metro with about a million other commuters and went to a job interview. I am trying to get a babysitting job at this point, seeing as most restaurant work in Paris requires a working visa and the ability to speak French under stress. Today I went and visited a family with a 6 month old girl and a 2 year old boy. They are nice children, if a little boring. How weird is that? I feel more active and exciting than a 2 year old. But I guess I can't really complain. Aren't most jobs in the world boring? At least, that's the impression I am beginning to get. Anyway, I went and played around with the baby today and now I'm sitting here waiting for the woman to call me to let me know if I've got the job for the next few months. Otherwise, I'll be beginning my job search anew.

Last night, Marc and I walked to the Lourve and watched the sun set behind the Eiffel Tower. Then I went to Shakespeare and Co., met up with an American and a Canadian, and went and drank wine with very entertaining French students by the Seine. It seems as though most of my nights are spent drinking wine by the Seine. I hope that it never loses its charm.

Real life can be kind of boring sometimes. I mean, what do most people do with their days? They go to work, they come home, they figure out what they can cook for dinner, they eat, they sit around, and they go to bed. That's about it. All the time. And yes, I live in Paris, which is fabulous (and also fabulously expensive), but it is still real life. I still wake up, try to find a way to make some money, go grocery shopping, test the limits of my cooking abilities, drink some wine, and go to bed. I do get to see some awesome things in between all of that, like all of the beautiful parks and cathedrals of Paris, but like I said, it is still real life.

I feel like I spend a lot of time waiting for things to happen. Not that life is just passing me by as I sit here quietly, just that I spend a lot of time waiting for the things that I really want. I go out and do things and make some things happen, but the people that I really want to be with are still months away. So although I am actively doing things for myself, I am still waiting for those other people that I love to show up and add some color to my life. Oh, if only it were December already.

For something totally off-topic: it's so strange to be living in a foreign country at the moment. So many historic things are taking place in my own country right now, and I'm not living through them. Presidential debates that will be forever referenced in politics, an economic crisis that my children will study in textbooks at school, gas shortages affecting the lives of millions of people in the South...I only read about these things in newspapers. I don't know what it's like to be living through them. I can understand them, and my heart feels all of these things for my country. But I don't have to live with them everyday, I don't see first-hand what is happening and what people are thinking and how the country is reacting. It is an interesting time to be in America and yet somehow I find myself on the outside looking in.

Alright, I should go figure out what to eat for dinner tonight. I'm trying to live on 7 euros a day the whole time that I'm here. Now, that might sound easy, and it's not impossible to do, but it does require some careful planning and thinking. And nothing can go to waste. All the food we buy has to be used somehow, because we can't afford to throw things away. Poverty makes you very creative and resourceful. It's kind of nice.

Hard Times. (but not really).

It's quarter past 3 on Friday night (or is it Saturday morning?) and I'm sitting here in my little blue and yellow apartment in Paris in the middle of a bout of insomnia.

It's strange to know that all of my co-years are off at university already, growing up in a very different way than I am. I am not looking forward to university in many ways. Yes, I love meeting new people. Yes, I want to sit in a real philosophy class again. Yes, I want to walk around on a campus again (eventually). As for the other stuff that is generally a part of the university experience...thanks, but no thanks. I don't want to sit around while you all try to figure out how to cook dinner. I don't want to watch while you all test your limits of alcohol intake at some frat party. I don't want to deal with you all while you try to figure out how to live with other people, how to date like a normal person rather than just randomly fuck, how you figure out how to transition from whatever high school you're coming from into what you think is the "real world". I've done that. I'm doing it now. I don't want to do it again. Now, how pretentious is this of me? Very. But it's the truth, or at least the truth for my pessimistic self at the moment. I am dreading sitting through years of beer pong and awkward relationships until everyone figures out how to be themselves again.

You know, I was so anxious for "real life", for this time in Paris, that I thought I would relish a few hard times. I romanticized it. Now, why I ever thought that doing piles of dishes and paying bills would be fun, I don't know. It's not, if you didn't know. But at the very least, I wanted this time to change me. I wanted it to bring me that step closer to my full self. And it is doing that.

What have I learned so far? Hm.

Living with someone is hard. 30 sqm gets dirty very, very quickly. Not everyone is sincere. Cooking dinner every night is a pain in the ass. I'm a very stubborn person. Getting a job is difficult. Being the person that I want to be is difficult. It's easy to be bitter.

How is that for a superficial yet honest summary?

Before I word-vomit any more cynical rhetoric, I should go to sleep. Waking up to a sunny day in Paris will surely make things look a bit rosier.

Volunteering in Bookstores and Other Unuseful Things.

So, to be more concise than the last post (which I fear verged on the point of unreadable)...

Life is wonderful. I have probably never drank so much coffee and wine or eaten so many baguettes in my life, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

I've started to set down roots here in Paris and I've begun to make some connections. It is wonderful.

I've found Greek and Latin classes to attend for free at the American University in Paris, I've found courses in Eastern Philosophy (taught in French, though) just a few steps from my apartment, I've got a few volunteering options through the American Church in Paris...and now I've become quite comfortable at Shakespeare and Co., so much so that I think they'll just offer me a room there soon. Shakespeare and Co., for those who don't know, is a ridiculous bookstore in Paris, right across from Notre Dame, that is quite close to the most perfect place on Earth. It is an English bookstore, full of random new and used books. Travellers and poor writers alike often board in the lofts above the bookstore for any amount of time and the place is run entirely by volunteers. I've met other foreigners in Paris through the store and I have a feeling that my life in Paris will, in many ways, radiate from the bookshelves at that place.

I spent today having coffee with another American on a gap year spending some time lost in Paris like me. Then we went back to Shakespeare and Co. (where he's living for the moment) and met up with another American and the three of us ended up sharing a bottle of wine on the Seine as the sun set. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

I met an artist today on a bridge in Paris who quickly became obsessed with my blue eyes, telling me he was going to paint a picture using my "blue energy" and that I must come back and see it. I love Paris.

I also found a couple of restaurants I may try getting a job in. There are apparently many places in Paris run by English speakers that don't really care whether you have paperwork and a legal visa or not. I think it would be a good way to really feel like I was living in Paris, rather than just going to a few random classes and hanging around the bookstore. I want to connect to the city in some way, and working in a restaurant seems perfect.

Alright, so much for concise. I should stop now because in reality, I could ramble on about Paris forever and ever.

Observations in Paris.

Right now, I am procrastinating getting out of bed and getting dressed. I am meant to go and see the Pope at Notre Dame today but I am not looking forward to the 7 hours I will spend camping outside the cathedral just to see him. It is gray and looks like it may rain, which only makes matters worse. And to make matters even more worse, my eye is swelling shut from some allergic reaction to God knows what (I'm assuming a mosquito bite) and therefore it looks like I am the victim of domestic violence or a BDSM enthusiast. Seriously. Not exactly the face I want to have when meeting the Pope.

But enough about that and more about Paris.

Parisians are an entirely interesting bunch of people. You think that you all "escape the bubble" when you leave college but to be honest, the whole world is a bunch of bubbles. Yes, they are different than Flekke and no two bubbles are exactly alike, but every corner of the world is a little strange microcosm of being not found anywhere else. Paris is an enormous, enormous bubble, but still a bubble.

After a long trip that finally ended at Charles de Gaulle, I was sarcastically dealt with by customs officials (eh, americaine...) before being allowed to leave the airport and meet Marc. We carried my two bags, both the size and weight of dead cows, all the way through the city's metro system and off to our little corner of the world. When we exited at our Metro stop, I was amazed by how French the street was. Now, that might sound stupid, but seriously. It is just so French. Exactly what you see in high school textbooks. Bakeries everywhere and cobblestoned streets and everyone smoking at tables outside of cafes. Apparently, Parisians never carry lighters even though they all smoke like chimneys and they did not hesitate to ask us for lighters as we carted the two dead-cow-bags through the neighborhood. We finally got to our building, wrestled the bags up 3 stories of spiral staircases and into the apartment.

The apartment. It seemed small at first. Now it seems normal. We have a full kitchen, our own bathroom, an enormous bed and a pull-out couch...really, everything we need. We have lots of windows and they are always open. There is a primary school near my building so all day I hear screaming French children on the playground behind the apartment. The apartment only has one sink that is apparently supposed to double as the kitchen sink and the bathroom sink. At first it was a bit awkward to have to move dishes aside to brush your teeth, but we're used to it now. You have to light a fire in the oven to make it heat up (seriously) but it's kind of cool. We don't have a table to eat at yet, but the couch is working out just fine. We buy baguettes in the mornings for breakfast and eat them with goat cheese. We always have wine in the apartment. We don't have enough storage space for all of our clothes so there are random piles of things all over the place, but I'll sort that out soon enough. The apartment has white walls with yellow trim and doors and blue curtains. At first, I thought it was a little ugly but now I would say that it has a kind of retro charm about it. We have managed to put up one picture (Picasso's "Don Quixote", a birthday present from Pilar) but I'm working on doing a little more decorating. All in all, the place is really starting to feel like home.

I have done almost all of the touristy stuff already. Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc du Triomphe, blah blah blah. Don't get me wrong, it's all lovely and I will re-visit all of these places many times. But the most interesting insight into Paris has come from just walking around or sitting at cafes.

Parisians have yet to discover the wonders of air conditioning. I swear, it just does not exist in this country. Which really would be okay as open windows are nice, except for all the mosquitoes that fly in through those open windows.

Also, in Paris, anything can be a parking space. I have seen people park mo-peds in the tiny little spaces between cars parked along the curb. Yesterday, I even saw someone park their car next to a median in the middle of the road. As in, he just kind of turned his car off in the middle of driving and got out and went walking around. No one even bat an eye.

Parisian men are very good at staring and winking at any woman within eyesight, but I think that most of them would pee their pants if one of these women actually approached them to talk.

All Parisians smoke and they have absolutely no qualms about asking for a cigarette from a complete stranger.

Parisians will applaud equally as loudly whether they are watching an American ex-pat juggle flaming batons at the Centre Pompidou or whether they are listening to a German street musician make his way through a heavily-accented version of "Knocking on Heaven's Door" on the steps of the Sacre-Coeur.

Paris is a very normal city fashion-wise. The people who try the hardest with how they dress seem to be foreigners. Parisian women don't look like they think twice about what they throw on in the morning, but most of them still look fabulous even if they are just wearing jeans and a cut-out t-shirt.

There is an unofficial uniform for Parisian men. For one thing, a respectable Parisian man has long-ish hair that is a little messy. They always look like they have not shaved in a couple of days. They wear jeans and tweed blazers or jackets and always have a cigarette hanging out of their mouths. If they want you to notice them, they push their long-ish hair out of their face and smile, wink, or possibly even offer you a cigarette as well.

Alright, that is all about Paris right now as the Pope waits for no one, especially not me. I have finally gotten a French phone so if you ever feel like calling, I'd love to listen. +33 06 76 07 76 96.

In Paris, finally.

Life feels a bit like a dream. I am poor, I live in a small apartment, I only eat bread and cheese, and I spend my days walking along the Seine or perusing used bookstores. It is all, in fact, wonderful.

My address, in case you are interested, is:

Valerie Bondura
30 Rue Geoffroy St-Hilaire
75005 Paris
France

As I write, a French waiter is trying to kick me out of the cafe I am at because apparently I am abusing their free internet because all I ordered was a coffee. And seeing as I am not about to spend 10 euros on a salad so I can keep sitting here, I'll have to write a proper post some other time.

Going...going....gone.

The next sign of life will come from a cramped apartment on Rue Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire (or perhaps a Parisian internet cafe).

Until then, bisous d'une americaine perdu.

Indian Summer

The summer is winding down. The last days of summer are always my favorite, those heavy, hot days in August when everyone tries to squeeze the last ounce of perfect out of the summer. "Indian summer". All the things you meant to do all summer but never did are all crammed into August. Everyone goes out for ice cream, they spend their days running around in the parks, they spend their nights at rooftop bars with trendy cocktails enjoying the breeze as the sun sets.

In many ways, I feel like I could do this all the time. But it wouldn't be as sweet if it was permanent, would it?

I worked my last night at the restaurant on Saturday. It's funny, it is the job I loved to hate. But I really did love to hate it. It was addictive. And I cared about it, as stupid as it was. But leaving work really drove home the point that the summer was over. It brought me to tears, honestly. Everything about my life this summer has radiated from that restaurant. I have met some of the most entertaining people, some that I only spent a brief conversation on and some that I have come to care about in ways I did not expect. I grew up in a way I never had to at college, I got my first taste of what the "real" world is like from that restaurant. I learned about wine and learned to mix cocktails. I learned to appreciate things that I knew nothing about before. And now it's over.

On Sunday, I went to a new church. It was enormous, what we call a "megachurch". It is hard for any non-American to imagine such a thing, thousands of people all worshipping in a building with no alter, no crosses, no stained glass windows, no choir, not even a specific denomination. Instead, it had stadium seating and electric guitars. The church even had a Starbucks Cafe inside of it. To be honest, the whole thing kind of blew my mind as well. But it was nice to be at a church, it is something that I had not realized I missed so much until I went back to it. I'm quite looking forward to the cathedrals of Paris.

I've bought the Julieta Venegas CD (I know, at this point, it's already kind of old and I'm kind of out of it). But I love it. I mean, seriously? I always wrote off "Eres Para Mi" as pathetic Mexican pop sung by some Thalia-wannabe but now I can't stop singing it. And every other song on the CD. She's just so...happy.

I have been so happy lately with things that are so small. I love getting peach Italian cream sodas from a small cafe at the edge of a city park and just spending hours walking and reading and writing and enjoying. I love singing in the middle of the road in Buford when the entire town has already gone to sleep and chasing the train along the tracks each time it passes. I love spending the afternoon in bookstores, buying whatever I feel like or not buying anything at all. I love slow dancing at 3:00 am to songs from the jukebox at trashy 24-hour restaurants. I love all of it.

I only have a few more days of reddish-orange sunsets and cotton dresses and gelato and impromptu lullabies but I am betting that Parisians also know a thing or two about the wonders of Indian summer.

It is late and the weekend has already passed me by before I even had a chance to notice. I feel like I have wasted a lot of time lately, spun my wheels, avoided doing things and making plans and generally procrastinated life in general.

I'll be leaving for Paris in two weeks and for some reason, I am scared. In some ways, more scared than I was about leaving for college. Yes, college prepares you well for what it feels like to have to leave somewhere. But it does not necessarily prepare you well for going somewhere. I am used to saying goodbyes, used to being uprooted. But the college takes care of you upon arrival. Your social life, your academic life, your residential life...all of it is predetermined by some extent by other people or simply by the fact that you find yourself living in an extremely isolated and secure corner of Norway with 200 other people. Life doesn't happen like that in other places.

So it is not really leaving that I am scared of. It is what happens after I leave. I know I will miss people, but I do not fear it. I know I will miss my home and my country but again, I do not fear it. What I do not know, however, is what I will do and who I will be doing it with once I leave. There is no safety net to fall back on if I find myself lonely or bored in Paris. I can't call maintenance to replace a light bulb in my room, I can't go to the kantina to eat a meal if I'm hungry, I can't go to Snikkarbua to meet up with people. I am moving to a city full of strangers who quite frankly don't give a damn whether I starve to death miserably or not. And that is what I am afraid of, that unknown, that lack of someone to jump in and save me should I need it.

I have been looking forward to my soon-to-be independence in Paris for so long. When did it change from being something to be excited about to being something to be frightened about?

Here and Now

It has been said that love is the glorification of the present. Love cares not for the past and throws caution to the wind when it comes to thoughts of the future. Love, in it's purest form, is about the here and now. It is about the present smile, the present warmth, the present wine, the present conversation, the present gaze. It happens only when you finally cease to think beyond the moment. Anything outside of your exact focus becomes meaningless, everything else falls away. It is impossible to think of future moments, or past moments, because you must indulge yourself so fully in the present, become engulfed by the temporal nature of it all. Love happens at that exact moment when you can feel the entire world turn to look at you, when you can feel the whole world watch you and smile, nodding in approval. Love happens in that spotlight. It is not quiet, it is not reasonable. It is decadent and reckless. And it happens because you realize your own finite being, you feel the pressure of time. It happens when you unconditionally live in the present. It happens when you are lucky enough to let yourself allow it to happen. It happens to you and because of you and for you. It is dangerous. And it is wonderful.

My New-Found Loves

1. Quills and ink
2. www.statravel.com
3. Shiraz, Malbec, and Rioja wines
4. Private beaches at the lake
5. Days spent in bed
6. Teas flavored like flowers
7. Golf courses at night
8. 5:00 am Waffle House trips
9. Postcards
10. Ghost towns
11. Guinness beer
12. Milan Kundera
13. Heirlooms
14. My mother's art
15. The Olympics
16. Peach Italian cream sodas
17. My new hair color
18. Life.

La Dolce Vita

At times, it is hard to remember that these are the moments that I live for because at times, these moments can feel too few and far between.

Right here, right now...this is exactly what it means to be young. These are the days I'll long for.

I am not sure if I am ready to give up the late nights and the serenades and the cocktails and the friends and the country and the stability and the sheer contentment just yet. I have not had so much to smile about in a long time. It begs the question, is this all happening because I am leaving or is this all happening in spite of the fact that I'm leaving?

But right now, I won't ask questions. Life is far too sweet to be soured by doubt and regrets.

The Beauty in the Breakdown

Tonight I found myself laying in the parking lot of a 24-hour breakfast place at 1:00 AM, looking at the stars with one of the few people I have ever selflessly cared about. I dropped everything--work, sleep, sanity-- for a late night angst-fest with someone who needed it more than ever. So we stuffed ourselves on greasy waffles and bad coffee with nowhere to go afterwards but the parking lot. So we laid there and stared and talked and stared some more. We were perhaps, for that moment, the most cynical people in the world. We watched each other break down, we marveled at how all things fall apart, we felt the pieces of the sky fall down around us. And then we laughed at our own hopelessness, if only because there is not much else to do at such a time.

I have spent a lot of time wondering what life would have been like had I never gone to Norway. I would not have become the person that I am, I would not have had to do some of the things I've done, life might not have hurt so much, I might have been happier with all of my naivety. But tonight I realized that the whole thought process is useless. I am the person I am now for a reason. I had to leave for a reason. And even if the only reason was so that one of the most important relationships of my life could turn into one of the most important friendships of my life, even if the only reason was so that I could find myself laying down in that parking lot tonight... then it was all worth it.

Black

The inner self. It is strange to think that maybe one is an entirely different person inside than they are outside. It is not necessarily because one is fake or because one tries to be something that they are not, it is just that the selective view of the self that others see is not the full picture of the true self, the self that only the individual can know.

It is interesting to realize that the outer self that is perceived by others is so far from the truth. Many of us pretend to be happy, many of us pretend like we occupy our time thinking about saving the world or the latest gossip or the paper that we have to write for our next class or whatever other socially acceptable topic you can think of. We all pretend like that is what our self is, that those things are all that occupy our time and thought. And it is funny because in reality, those things likely occupy about 10% of our true thought and the other 90% of our thoughts are about things that hardly any other person will ever know about.

It is like we all walk around pretending to be these well-adjusted people, entirely in control of our emotions. We act as though nothing affects us, as though we have gotten over past events or actions in a reasonable way and as though the future does not cause us any anxiety. Even when we do discuss our problems, we do so according to social etiquette. We carefully choose the right things to complain about or cry about but make sure we only scratch the surface of what is real.

We are all so afraid of being vulnerable, of being touched, of caring, of being judged, that we hide so much away. Perhaps we are even so afraid of ourselves that rather than articulate our own inner darkness, our own shadows and nuances, we simply push these things away from language, away from physical embodiment. As a defense mechanism, we only confront our demons in abstract and opaque ways, never defining them or bringing them to light.

These truths, these more full pictures of ourselves, are hidden so deeply inside of us that they are often even hidden from ourselves. But every once in awhile, something will remind us of them. Something will force us to wrestle with them once again. And the ironic thing is that rather than truly face them, rather than voice our emotions and fears and frighteningly complicated inner dialectics, we wrestle our personal truths back underneath the surface. We push them so far in hopes that we will never have to see them again.

So we sit in silence. We smile. We pretend. We become so good at pretending that we fool ourselves into thinking that we are truly happy, that all of the pieces of our self are good, that we have moved on from the past and that the future looks bright. We fool ourselves. But it becomes exceedingly difficult to do so and eventually we learn that no one can pretend forever.

Eventually, we remember. Always.

Musings On Bartending

Semi-drunken men of the world: Why do you all find it acceptable to ask out your bartender? Using the "semi-drunk" part of your label as an excuse does not work. It is more than that. Are women your own age really that terrible? Are you really that lonely? Do you really think that your completely sober bartender will take the time to give you her number while she's working? Has the line "This martini tastes as good as you look" ever worked on any female bartender (if so, please give me this woman's number as she needs to have some sense knocked into her)? Do you honestly believe that ANY woman wants to date a man who orders a pomegranate martini/cosmopolitan/wine spritzer/margarita?

And now to all men of the world, why do you think it is okay to continually ask a girl out? I feel there are a few things that should automatically end your quest for a date with a girl. Number one, if the girl in question tells you she has a boyfriend, you should give up immediately. I do not understand why you think that a girl who has a boyfriend will STILL go out with you, or at least randomly hook up with you. Do you think we are all cheating sluts? Honestly. Number two, if you know for certain that a girl is 10+ years younger than you, you should immediately move on and start working on someone your own age. Pedophilia never has been and never will be attractive. Number three, if a girl has turned you down once already. You may be desperate and unable to control your libido, but a girl is not going to turn you down one week and change her mind the next. Unlike you, a girl can wait longer than a week for sex and does not need the constant self-esteem boost of a relationship. Therefore, she will not simply surprise you by suddenly saying yes the second, third, or even fourth time you ask her out.

But then again, if you happen to be one of the rare attractive/talented/intelligent men that walk into my bar, then most of the above questioning does not apply to you and so yes, you can buy me a drink. Thanks.

Agape, Falling Short of.

If two years in that insulated snow globe taught me anything, it is appreciation. I cannot explain how much more deeply I savor life after that place. I enjoy the simple pleasure of being able to get any kind of food I want in minutes. I live for the times when I'm alone in my car listening to whatever music I feel like with the windows down. I love having a coffee alone just for the chance to sit down on the sidewalk with the sun in my face and people streaming by. I feel accomplished in a way I never did before when I now truly work at something and succeed at it (I've learned to be a kickass bartender this summer). I relish every moment I get to sit in my beautiful garden and write a few pages of whatever I feel like writing. I listen closely to the stories of others and fall in love with the connections we all share. I covet a stolen minute to read another page of a book I am reading for its intrinsic value rather than the grade I'll get on the essay about it. Life is magnified, detailed, enormous, and most importantly, just so alive.

I wonder if it is sad that I needed Norway to tell me all of these things. Or maybe it is not sad, only natural. Or maybe it is not natural but amazing and wonderful. I am not sure. I do know that I wholeheartedly believe that there was no where else I could have learned more about humanity than at that school. And universally loving humanity, agape, is the highest love of all, according to the most passionate romantics in history, the ancient Greeks. I do not know if anyone can truly universally love all of humanity, but beginning to understand a bit about all of it and what the word "humanity" even means must be a good start to loving all of it. To love, to appreciate, one must understand. I have begun to understand and for the first time, I can finally begin to truly, deeply appreciate.

On a side note, if you have not already, go read "Socrates in Love: Philosophy for a Passionate Heart", "Zorba the Greek", and "La Sombra del Viento". In any language, in any way, it doesn't matter. Just read them. Now.

"I endeavored to lead a different type of life, to interest myself in practical work, to know and love the human material which had fallen into my hands, to feel the long-wished-for joy of no longer having to deal with words but with living men."-Zorba

A Breath

They always say that life doesn't stop for anyone, a fact that is certainly making itself apparent at the moment. But that's alright. I've found it's often good that most of us never get the chance to just curl up in a dark room somewhere and pretend like the world will be a better place when you finally leave again. If life stopped for anyone, ever, then how could you have a reason to get out of bed in the morning?

Life is a lot better when I stop defining happiness by numbers. If this summer has taught me anything, it is that shit happens. And that a whole lot of shit is likely to happen all at once. That is just the way it is. So whether it is money or time or family or a lack of a Parisian place to live or an intense and growing hatred of the French or interpersonal relationships, it doesn't matter. Because it is all shit that has to be sorted out and will be sorted out and there's no way around it. You pay what you have to, you do what you have to, you say what you have to because that is what life asks of you. And life doesn't ask these things of you politely, life demands these things. In return, you get to breathe for a couple more moments. And that's fine by me.

The Restaurant

So what's it really like? Well, generally most of my co-workers are, shall we say, not in their natural state of mind due to any number of substances. Yes, that's right, the people that cook your food at your favorite restaurant are likely blazed while preparing your meal. Amazing, yes? Customers are generally alright and find my accent quite endearing. I had no idea I had anything other than an American accent, but apparently time overseas has given me a quote, "European flavor". Yes, that is what I was told today. Oh, thank you. Also, I was told that I was "quite delightful". That phrase made me want to put on an Irish accent and say "Well, thank you, lass! Here's a Keebler cookie!". For real. Delightful? Whatever. As long as you leave me a 20% tip or better, I'll say as many things that you think are "European" as you like. Restaurants are deceiving because as we learned today, even an upscale wine bar can absolutely, miserably fail their health inspection. And in case you had any doubts, everyone in the restaurant industry smokes. Everyone. That is all there is to it. And the cooks don't have a problem grabbing food with their fingers and the servers generally gossip behind everyone and anyone's back. Yes, we laugh at you when you order a well-done steak or a crappy wine. And yes, we do plenty of imitations of you back in the kitchen. So that is what working in my restaurant is like.

The lovely thing about working in a restaurant is that you can be whoever you want. You can tell customers about selective parts of your life, your co-workers only know the person that you are on the job...it is a great job for privacy, as strange as that sounds. You only have to let on what you want to. And you get plenty of time for private smoke breaks in back alleys and dark hours closing down the restaurant to do lots of thinking. Which is good, because things tend to seem simpler when I'm putting chairs on top of tables or leaned up against a brick wall behind the restaurant.

It gives me time to miss things, which I do. It gives me time to realize that not only do I miss the good things but that I miss the bad things as well. I miss that which was messed up, I miss those things that were difficult, I miss having to figure it all out. In many ways, I've moved on well, without the heartbreak that hits most people. But in some ways, I've realized I'm always going to be a bit stuck. I've realized that I left pieces of myself along the way, I've given pieces of myself to people and places and things and I can't go and get those pieces back now. I just have to learn how to live without them and learn how to live with the fact that generally what I've given doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. It was all familiar, the good and the bad. I knew the rules to those games. And now? Now I'm not so sure what the rules are.

But hey, I'm sure I'll figure it out over free Spanish tapas and wine at the restaurant. Eventually.

Reality?

I hate when things happen that make me feel much older than I wish to feel. Like paying bills. I do not want to have to pay bills. I am 19 years old. I should be worrying about where I'm going to pass out after some frat party like every other American 19 year old, not how I'm going to afford cell phone bills and rent and groceries. Are you serious?

It is hard. And frustrating. Hard because I'm forced to realize that I am growing up, and quite fast at that. Frustrating because I cannot possibly make thousands of dollars off of one summer working in the U.S.. I applied for a second job today at this crazy, over-priced baby's clothing store. Then I'll be working two jobs for the rest of the summer and I will still probably barely scrape by in Paris.

How does everyone else do it? There must be some way to make the amount of money that I need without losing my mind. I just haven't found it yet.

Why I Love Home

1. Because alcohol is cheap and easy to get.

2. Because I have people that knew me before, knew me during, and know me after UWC.

3. Because my sister is out of control and more fun than ever.

4. Because illegal underage drinking is exciting.

5. Because everything is cheap.

6. Because I can hold my own and be respected in the Latino parts of town.

7. Because passing out on the floor with random people is entirely acceptable.

8. Because I get to sleep in all the time.

9. Because I don't have to see certain people on a daily basis.

10. Because it's hot and sunny.

11. Because I have beautiful summer clothes.

12. Because my parents treat me like a best friend and a daughter.

13. Because everyone is different but the same.

14. Because we have real Mexican food.

15. Because things make sense.

Secrets.

It's hard to believe it's only been two weeks since I graduated and left. So much has happened in two weeks. The entire world shook, crumbled, fell apart, and put itself back together in a whole new way in that two week time period. A little more than two weeks ago, I was drinking champagne and toasting to the year with Maria, Katherine, and Raine at the bench. Two weeks ago, I was sitting in Oslo, smoking a cigarette in the sun with Elisabeth and Raine. A week ago, I was being an embarrassing tourist with Marc in Copenhagen, laughing and happily stumbling back to a hotel. Hell, even six days ago I was riding on the back of a bike on small-town Dutch streets with Marc and his best friend.

Somehow, no matter how hard we try, we never really do manage to say everything to everyone that we hope we will. So here, in random order, are some of the secret things I've wanted to say to different people.

1. I am afraid that you will cut me off because you think you can self-preserve by not thinking of me because I can't be there. If you're not thinking of me, you can't miss me. Don't do that.

2. You hate wine. And emotions. Stop pretending. Be yourself more often, not just what you think you should be for other people or what you think looks good.

3. You inspire me. I wish you would have let me in more when we had the chance. I hope we make up for lost time at some point next year.

4. You scare the shit out of me. Which is maybe why you're the person I use most often as a motif for characters when I write.

5. You are arrogant and empty.

6. Learn to be self-sustaining, it's more dignified.

7. Don't be so hard on yourself, you'll die young of a brain aneurysm if you keep on like this. Relax and enjoy yourself, you're a good person to be just the way you are.

8. I never felt the way you did. I hated you for condemning me for it. I got over it.

9. I cannot decide if you are my opposite or if you are really just everything I wish I could be. Either way, you make me better.

10. You taught me so much about myself. You made me laugh, you made me cry. But I was always, always there, even when I tried not to be. I could never leave you.


Can you figure it out? Or at least, most importantly, do you know which one is yours?

Escapism.

What the hell do I ever talk about in this blog? It seems I talk about nothing in order to avoid talking about everything. My own journals and workbooks seem to go a bit like this too. I can write about everything except what I really mean, I can write about everyone else but never directly about myself. I have fooled myself into believing that I sit down to write in order to deal with things, to think about things, when really, I sit down to write in order to escape. I obviously cannot ever escape my own mind and thoughts so I don't feel too terribly guilty granting myself a little physical escapism in the form of writing every once in awhile.

I sat next to the Chattahoochee River today. It is so hot here that fog literally rises from the river as the water evaporates. But that fog makes it one of the nicest places to be, like natural air conditioner. The coolness of the river and the good conversation may have gone a bit to my head. I have been thinking differently lately, and right now it seems like I really shouldn't give a shit about anything I'm "supposed" to do. You were right today. I'm learning how to just be. And I feel like I should keep working on it, this "just being" thing.

I dreamed last night. Usually, I don't dream very extended or complicated, lucid dreams. But last night was different. In one dream, I dreamt that the North and the South decided to redo the Civil War. Everyone wanted everything to be fair, so they used modern Civil War re-enactment armies for the soldiers. They wore the uniforms and used weapons from 1860. I dreamt about the formations, about how it looked, the camps, the battlefield, everything. General Lafayette, the French hero, was the leader of the Northern armies and, for some reason, Mussolini was the leader of the South. And Mussolini was actually on horseback, leading the charge into battle. I wasn't at the battle, I was sitting at a dinner at the North Druid Hills Country Club in Atlanta, wearing a gown and speaking with a very Southern accent about the prospects of the South actually beating the North this time. And even though I wasn't at the battle, I was still, in my dream, terrified of Mussolini.

Oddly enough, it kind of all makes sense. Even now that I'm awake.

Chez moi

I'm already home. Sitting outside in 38 degree weather, probably getting a sunburn at the moment, eating as much Mexican food as I can possibly fit inside myself, and spending money. Life is good. Home is good. I am happy.

I am partially so happy because leaving college was so nice. I mean, of course it was hard, but I feel like I mostly left everything with closure, like it was all finished and had all been said and done by the time I left. The fact that the week after was amazing helped as well. I really could not have asked for any better.

Tove's was good, a crazy party in a beautiful place and plenty of time to talk and say goodbye. Then Marc and I took a little roadtrip with Adriana and Alex from Goteborg to Malmo which was actually quite nice. From Malmo, Marc and I took the train to Copenhagen where we spent a ridiculously decadent night. One of those nights that you don't forget, that really stays in your head. Every detail was just right: the restaurant, the wine, the food, the city, the cathedrals, everything. And of course, the company wasn't so bad either, haha.

I think I needed to leave the college to really appreciate the person that it made me. The week spent traveling really showed me how much I'd changed, and now being home, I'm happy with the person that I am.

I may have gotten a job, though I'm not sure. I'm quite happy about it, too. I'd be waitressing and bartending at this little upscale Spanish restaurant. I think I will really like it, and I get to speak Spanish. It is funny though that I can bartend but I can't legally drink myself. Oh well.

I think the summer will be interesting and I'm glad I have this time to sort myself before going to Paris. I am so excited for Paris that it's unnatural, I think. I'm not sure if I will ever want to leave :)

Again, thank you for everything. Graduation was perfect, leaving was perfect, traveling was perfect. I haven't been this happy in a long time. Thank you.

The aftermath (but not really)

So, that last post was angry. But Elisabeth with a late night cigarette gave me some perspective on the whole thing. As did leaving campus. So it's alright. I apologize for my public internet rantings and ravings.

Yes, I've left. There's nothing to say now. Am I bitter about some things (or just one thing?)? Yes, obviously. But am I ridiculously excited for the life I have in front of me, the life I'm living right now? Yes and yes.

I didn't cry as much as I thought I would. I think that's because I feel like I deserved to leave, I deserve the life that I'm working out for myself. The past two years have been long and hard and I've earned the right to set out in the real world, surround myself only with the people I truly care about, forget about the rest, and just be myself. It's wonderful.

I'm sitting in bed with Raine, trying to fall asleep. Downstairs, there are about 20 of my co-years. Sweden is sunny and warm and full of good things. Party tomorrow, and then off to Copenhagen with Marc. God, I love life sometimes.

I will write more from home. Maria and Katherine, anything I could say also goes unsaid. There aren't enough words, and I've emailed you a million times already. Sebastian, Hanna, everyone else, I will email you when I'm back home. Take care of yourselves and enjoy that place while you own it.

Thank you for everything. It's been amazing.

"Voici les cles de ton bonheur..."

Now I'll go sleep next to my best friend, wake up tomorrow surrounded by even more of them, drive around Swedish country roads, dance the afternoon away, then drink white wine as the sun sets.

Thank you thank you thank you.

Never You Mind

I've almost finished my exams. In fact, in exactly 9 hours, I will be entirely finished with the IB. Strange, two years of work will all be finished tomorrow.

And what do I feel? Relieved, obviously. Happy. Exhausted. Exams have been annoying and tiring. Not especially difficult, just a pain in my ass. Maybe I haven't done my best, but I haven't done my worst either. So that's okay.

The end is coming up so quickly. I can't believe that this is me, that I am now what my second years were last year. I can't believe I'm here, ready to walk out of this place in a matter of days. It seems impossible, but it also seems right. It needs to happen.

The end does, however, beg the question: how do you want to be remembered? Apparently, some of you wish to be remembered as gossip-mongering liars (oh, that was harsh). But it's true. I am so disappointed with so many people. I am actually in disbelief, I am shocked that any of you could and do believe something so illogical and ridiculous and stupid.

I'm going to be honest, it hurts. It hurts that people would rather lie about something at my expense just so they have something to talk about. It hurts that people can speak behind my back but not to my face. It hurts that everyone is so quick to assume that I am a certain way even though if you all took a minute to consider everything, to consider me, you would think differently. It hurts because only very few people know that I couldn't do such a thing even if I wanted to. So all of you gossiping about it, laughing about it, judging it...you should take a second to consider how absolutely painful it is for me. You are judging something that I am literally incapable of. And all of you make it so much worse. You are adding insult to injury.

This is part of the reason why I am ready to leave. I feel like I have outgrown this place. I feel that I really cannot be bothered with the high school gossip and the back-stabbing and the strange alliances any more. I want to be back in the real world where people think normally and clearly and for themselves. I love Flekke but to be honest, it is full of far too many sheep (both literally and figuratively).

Now this may all sound harsh or bitter, but I guess it's really not. It is the truth, but I am not exactly angry about it. Instead, I would say that I'm sad about it. It is sad to realize that two years have come to this, that some people have not grown up very much at all. It is sad that so many of you want to be remembered like this. It is sad because I have cared so much, because I have believed in all of you, and it apparently hasn't amounted to shit with any of you.

I guess in the end, we all reveal our true selves.

"Are you sorry that you treat me unkind? Never you mind. Are you sorry that you wasted our time? Never you mind."

Oh Semisonic, thank you for writing the soundtrack for this exact moment.

Contemplaciones y Mensajes

Yo se que no puedo escribir poesia o literatura en espanol. Pero voy a trater de escribir un poco. Pienso que puedo expresarme un poco en espanol. Somos diferentes en cada idioma, si? Y para este tema, necesito espanol.

Hay personas en este mundo quienes son diferentes. Hay personas en cada vida quienes afectan mucho en cualquier sitio en cualquier momento.

Nuestros corazones son mugrientos con el suciedad del mundo. Cualquier persona tiene una polvareda de su corazon roto. Pero hay personas quienes pueden limpiar el polvo, el mugre, de nuestros corazones. No vamos a esperarlas. Pero son nuestros amores, en el sentido romantico pero en otros sentidos tambien. Los limpiadores de nuestros corazones son la gente que infunde nuestras vidas con razon. Y eso es lo unico que importa. Un poco es mas vale que nada.

Esas personas son esas que recordamos. Es probable que el mundo no va a recordarte. Pero si una persona, un corazon, te recuerdo? Eso es todo que es necesario.

Hace diecinueve meses aqui. Mi corazon estaba roto. Mi corazon estaba reparado. Y en el tiempo intermedio, aprendia mucho. Aunque hay personas que se quedan y hay personas que no se quedan, personas que rompia y personas que reparaba...no puedo olivdar que me ensenaban. No puedo olivdar algo como eso.

Y si tu te quedas todavia, te prometo: te voy a recordar despues de este sitio. Y me vas a infundir con razon, con esperanza, con confianza siempre.

Lost In Translation

I've just realized that any normal person coming across my blog would think that I hate this place and that I am a very unhappy person. That is not the case. We're always hardest on the ones (and places) we love, yeah? I mean, if I wasn't irredeemably tied to this place and its people, I don't think I would find it so easy to criticize everything. So the point is, although I might sound all doomsday/fire and brimstone-like, I'm not. I do care about things. And because I care about them, I'm emotional about them. I'm just afraid that the only impression I give is that I'm emotional and that I fail to convey the caring and meaning behind all of it.

It generally seems like we misinterpret a lot of things. It is this horrible, permanent language barrier caused by the fact that we all speak our own languages. I'm not referring to the problem of me speaking English as a first language and you speaking Russian or Spanish or Arabic as a mother tongue...I'm talking about the fact that we all have our own language that we speak with ourselves. And this language is one that we are completely incapable of teaching to others, one that we fumble to translate into spoken words. But that's the problem. It's always a translation. It's never what you actually mean, it's just a good approximation of it. I know this sounds like a bad summary of Wittgenstein's musings on private language, but it's true. We are always translating ourselves and, as all of us at this multilingual school know, there are always things that get lost in translation.

That is not how it works.

Fuck you for attempting to diminish and romanticize and laugh about something that is anything but eclectic and pretty.

Fuck you for trying to make real life a whole lot shinier and more adorable than it actually is.

And fuck you for not making it worth it.

Fuck you for not giving it all meaning and justification

Fuck you for showing me pretty but giving me ugly.

I am tired.

I am tired of watching the organization that I have put my faith in (and spent the last two years of my life living for) implode.

I am tired of hearing about how much I should be studying.

I am tired of university paperwork.

I am tired of thinking about money and scholarships and how to pay the rent.

I am tired of hearing about how much you all are studying.

I am tired of never really being at peace.

I am tired of people acting less like real people and more like caricatures.

I am tired of any sentence beginning with "This is the last time...".

I am tired of waiting.

I am tired of not knowing the right words.

I am tired of having writer's block.

I am tired of the past.

And for some reason, I don't think that this is all the kind of tired that can simply be fixed by sleep.

The Waiting Place

You know how at some point in every woman's life, she realizes that whether she likes it or not, she has turned into her mother? I realized that I'm my mother today. I think it's too early to be my mother. Or maybe she is just far too un-motherly. But either way, it made me laugh.

I don't know what to do anymore. The end of the year makes people do strange things, doesn't it? I think all the sunlight has made us all a bit crazy. And sometimes it's good crazy, like let's have random dance parties crazy. But sometimes it's bad crazy, like let's all bitch at each other crazy. It's weird how different people are reacting to the upcoming emotional trauma in the form of exams and graduation. But really, haven't we all just become a bit too dramatic for our own goods?

I went for a run today, something that I haven't done in a very, very long time. I thought about a lot of things, I thought about why I went out for a run. Mostly I went out for a run because I was bored. Why was I bored? Because I'm just passing my time, waiting for something to happen. That's really what the majority of life is, isn't it? You find things to do to pass the time in between the real moments, the real things. Not that that's such a bad thing. I've read and written more in the past weeks than I have in a long time. I've spent important time with Maria and Katherine. I've been content. So no, it's not bad, but it still is waiting. I don't know what I'm waiting for, I don't know what you're waiting for, I don't know what any of us are waiting for. But I am pretty sure that most of us are waiting for something.

Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down.

As I grow older, I’ve come to realize that win/lose isn’t really as black and white, as obvious as I always thought it was. Winning and losing in the traditional sense have no real relevance to daily life, to social interaction, to reality. The greatest tragedy of all is then perhaps that not everyone sees it this way.

I don’t even know how to function in a win/lose world, at least not in a social win/lose world. Of course some things are win/lose, like competition debating, sports, the stock market…but relationships? To make relationships about winning and losing is philosophically perverse. It eliminates compassion, understanding. It eliminates humanity.

It breaks my heart to think that we all are out to get each other, that other people harbor silent grudges for years, that no one can simply accept disagreement maturely. How are we all planning on ever functioning in the real world if we can’t constructively discuss rather than “bitch”, if we can’t disagree about anything, if we all can’t always have our way? I don’t think that “conniving”, “manipulative”, “hurtful”, or “good at bitching” are the characteristics that future employers, Ivy League universities, friends, or spouses are looking for.

How can we expect any country to ever resolve conflict, any company to comply with environmental standards, any government to act fairly? All of these actions, conflicts, etc. arise from self-interest, from individuals wanting to get their way, from people being frustrated with being out-voted, out-voiced. How can we ever ask anything bigger than ourselves to work out disagreements? How can we expect that everyone else should act collectively, put aside self-interest, if we can’t manage to do so in an issue as small as a two-hour dinner?

I am not sure what any of you have learned over the course of two years (some of you, I fear, have not learned very much) but speaking for myself, I have learned a lot about the value of maturity, of dignity, of articulation, of compromise. I have learned that before this place, I over-estimated people. I thought that, with education, anyone could overcome ignorance, arrogance, conceit, and obstinacy. That belief has been proved wrong. It has been hard. It has been long. I have held out, I have been blithely optimistic in the face of all evidence to the contrary. But now I’m forced to look at how the cards have fallen and unfortunately, it’s disheartening.

I am not sure if this is really how you want it to end. If so, then I am heartbroken. I am not sure if you are proud of what has happened, proud of how you have acted, proud of what you have done. If you are, then I am disgusted.

I believed in you. I believed in all of you. You have let me down. You have let yourselves down.

Am I angry? No. Am I disappointed? Always.

Empty Talk.

If I only I had the time, if I only I had the talent, if only I had the focus, if only I wasn't so damned scared of what I have to say, if only I knew that you would read them, if only I wasn't so damned scared of myself, if only I thought it would matter.

If only I could write it all.

If only, if only, if only.

There is quite possibly nothing more frustrating than having everything to say but not being able to say it.

Irredeemably. Nonsensically. Irresponsibly. Stubbornly. Irrevocably.

Constantly.

Infinitely.

Claridad.

I often find myself wondering why I am such a mess. I think that it generally boils down to the fact that I was born in the wrong country. Now I know that sounds stupid but in all honesty, why the hell was I not born in Latin America? I feel more at home there and with that culture than with my own. The food, the people, the music, the language, everything. But I'll never really fit. No matter how good my Spanish gets, no matter how much time I spend living there, no matter how many songs I know or how much literature I can reference or how politically opinionated I am about Latin American issues, I will always be on the outside looking in. I will always be watching Latin America through a transparent curtain, watching and learning and loving but never being included. How frustrating.

I've moved on from all of the Neruda and am now into a collection of Benedetti poetry. It's lovely because all of the poems remember where they came from. They have distinctive roots. Benedetti allows his poetry to be biased, to be opaque to foreigners, and I can entirely respect and admire that. The poetry is what it is, the countries are what they are, and that is that. No pretending, no glossing over, no exaggerating, no romanticizing. It's refreshing.

At the moment, life is routine. A routine of contented nothingness. There is nothing left to do anymore, not much left to say. It is undoubtedly the beginning of the end. And in the face of inevitable end, there's not much else to do besides laughing and dancing the nights away.

I am not afraid of regretting much. I have been only what I am, and I really couldn't have done it all any other way. The only thing I am afraid of is how alone I am without you. I guess it was foolish to think that these two years would result in any different outcome, but still. It is sad, like we have been playing out this satirical tragedy for two long years and for what? For nothing, really. For loneliness. And although it may have been foolish to imagine things otherwise, I still could not have possibly been prepared for the reality of the end. But I guess that sometimes, there really is nothing else to do but to leave.

"Lento, viene el futuro. Lento, pero viene."

So true, Sr. Benedetti, so true.

La Rose

The Little Prince was so in love with the rose. It didn't happen instantly. He watered her and cared for her, kept her warm, listened to her. He invested in her. The rose was not easy to love. She was difficult and proud, stubborn, almost a narcissist. But the Prince kept watering her, kept listening to her.

He began to look beyond the pride. He did not see the beauty anymore. He couldn't see the love when it happened. It wasn't in the water, it wasn't in the conversations. But that's how he knew it was love. The most important things can't be seen. The love was in all the time he had invested in her, the responsibility he had taken on in caring for her. She tamed him.

The Prince knew that you must take responsibility for that which you tame. It is only fair. You cannot tame something and then expect it to become untame again, to fend for itself, to be alone. The Prince thought that he was taming her as well. But he was not. She was not tame, she did not understand, she did not really see him at all. She enjoyed being kept warm, enjoyed being watered, enjoyed having an admirer. But it didn't really matter if it was the Little Prince or any other thing that came along. She was not about to take responsibility for anything, let alone the Little Prince's heart.

And so he left. He went far, far away. He worried about his rose, he thought about his rose. He still loved his rose. He was still tamed. But he could not be there with her anymore. He had to keep his heart as far away as he could because although it was tamed, the rose would never care for it. He was tamed for nothing. The rose was important because of the time he had spent on her. But he was useless because of the time the rose would not spend on him. The Prince could not keep allowing himself to be tamed for nothing.

There was nothing else to do but leave.

Brown.

I have been sitting here for the last 30 minutes reading through all of the applications that I submitted. All those frustrating days sitting in my cupboard of a bed on campus, pulling my hair out at my kitchen table back home with paperwork strewn everywhere...the years and months and hours put into my future, all summed up into neat little paragraphs of 2000 characters or less.

So yes, I know I have worked hard. Not necessarily academically, but I have worked very hard on myself. I've worked so hard to be the person I want to be, to shape myself, my views, my mind, my core. This work has been more than any grade could ever convey. I know I have worked, just in different ways than most people have.

But still, I have to stand back and ask, "Why me?". To this, my sister would reply, "Valerie, why not you? Who else? Who better?". But she is not here to say that (and I miss her more than she knows) and so therefore I find myself asking answerless questions.

I do not think I will ever know why I get the opportunities that I do. In my head, I am still a 10 year old girl playing kickball with the boys in an open field in Kansas. I am still an awkward 14 year old whose biggest problem is that every morning she pokes her eye with the mascara wand while trying to apply makeup to make herself look older. I am still the stubborn 17 year old who refuses to do half of her schoolwork because she can't see any benefit in spending time writing essays about books that she read 6 years earlier.

I don't know why things happen to me. I am sure that I must be making some kind of choices to influence things, but I don't know what those choices are. It always surprises me that good things can happen, almost like the universe keeps dragging me to exactly where I need to be.

It is comforting to see everyone's lives spreading out before them. It assures me that we all actually do keep breathing after graduation, that we can be real and interesting people even when we are far away from this place. It makes me realize that I will see people again, that we can still be connected, that although we won't live together anymore, phone lines and internet connections and 20 minute train rides and international flights really could be enough to hold it all in place.

I still want to ask, "Why me?". But I think for now it's best if I just shut up, smile, enjoy the sun, and give in to the tidal pull of the world that is urging me out, urging me forward, urging me to let go.

Immortality

You know, in Classical times, the best thing a person could wish for was a legacy. Honor, pride, remembrance. Achilles went off to battle because he wanted to be remembered, because he wanted his name to be whispered across the pages of history, because a man never truly dies if his name remains immortal.

I think, in a much less epic way, that that's what we all really want. We don't want to think it's possible to replace us, to get over us, to live on without us. We want to think that we make the place, we make the people, not the other way around. I feel my own imminent replacement acutely. What do I want to be remembered for? What do you want to be remembered for?

Speaking of memory, isn't it frustrating how your mind always seems to capture the strangest moments in perfect detail? Sometimes, in a moment, you say to yourself, "I must remember exactly how this feels,". But you don't. The moments you try to hold on to slip away the fastest. Maybe that's because you can't plan the things that matter most. The memories that you do hold on to always seem to be unexpected, sometimes superficially insignificant. But in reality, they are usually the most telling moments.

It's extremely hot out. We're sitting with all the windows open, the sounds of the city blowing in with the wind. We sit on the black couch and chainsmoke, barely hitting the ashtray. It's too hot to get dressed, we sit around in our underwear the whole time. I'm drinking boxed white wine. It's cold and tastes wonderful, but that is because I'm too distracted, laughing at your jokes, to actually taste the wine.

I wait until 1:00 a.m. because it's the first time all day that we're alone. I make chocolate brownies and cover them with bathtowels and make you hike all the way up to our spot with me. We don't even have a flashlight. I light a candle on your brownie and sing Happy Birthday. We talk for far too long about how old we are, about how much we've grown up.

I'm running after you. You won't stop. It's cold and the ground is wet. It's late and dark and I'm scared and I don't know what to do. I grab you and we're standing straight underneath a light, highlighted against all the surrounding blackness. You're crying. My heart hurts. I want to sit and watch you cry forever, I want to hold you and feel you sinking into me. It is so real. It feels like you have broken through some wall, even if only for a few minutes, and I'm allowed to see the flood, the pain, the emotion behind everything. You keep turning away from me but it doesn't matter. Now I know that you care.

We're sitting on the steps, listening to jazz music. The weather is perfect, city lights mix together with the stars. We have coffee and crepes. I sit with my arm around you and I want to cry because I'm so proud of the woman you've become and I don't even know why. All we are doing is eating butter and sugar crepes and laughing at the boys sitting behind us trying to hit on us in French. But I am so proud of you that night that I feel like I will burst.

We are laying off the dock, our heads hanging over the side. The world is upside down. The water and air are both so clear that we can't tell which way is up and which way is down anymore. You say something philosophical, probably borderline pretentious. Half of me feels stupid, the other half wants to laugh at you and your self-aware intelligence. So I do laugh. And half of you thinks I'm an idiot, but the other half thinks I'm cute. I can tell. I smile for the rest of the day.

I come back to the room, I've brought you dinner. You are already asleep in your bed. You fell asleep on top of your sheets, in all of your clothes. I've only known you for a week but my heart hurts with how much I love you already, how much I just want to take care of you. I write you a Post-It note in bad Spanish and hope you realize that you are already my sister.

It is autumn but it's sunny. There are a lot of us, all outside enjoying the weather. You jump in the freezing water and swim around for ages. Everyone thinks you are a crazy person. I know you are a crazy person. When you finally come out, you are the palest thing I've ever seen. I wrap you in two towels and try to carry you back. We put you in the shower to warm you up and I realize that you need to be taken care of, that you need someone to look out for you and wrap you up and keep you warm every once in awhile. And I realize that I don't mind being that person one bit, that I actually love taking care of you.

It's summer. I'm wearing men's pants and a white tank top. I leave the party. I'm so upset that tears won't even come out anymore, I am simply shocked. I wander around on the dock and end up at my favorite spot. It is the first time I've really been there alone with nothing to do. I can still hear the music from the party. I finally start to cry. Then I hear you coming up the path behind me. I ask you how you knew where I was. You tell me that you care about me and that you know me, that you just knew I'd come here. I lean into you and cry, you wrap a jacket around me. I know everything's going to be okay.

Like I said, I always remember the strangest moments. But you are all, at least for me, immortal.

Nothingness, To-do Lists, and Clarity

It's the beginning of Easter Break and I officially have nothing to do with myself. Strange. I'm always so busy, always looking to travel. But somehow, this time, I just didn't take the initiative to actually do anything. I could have gone home, but for some reason, I didn't. I really can't explain any of it. All I know at this point is that I find myself with 12 days of nothingness on this campus. As they say, idle hands are the devil's playthings.

I have many applications to fill out. It's like the world is laughing at me. "Ha, Valerie, you thought you were done with applications when you finished your university ones! Ha ha, you were so wrong, fill out 12 other forms now! Decide the rest of your life now! No pressure!". I feel like I am, in reality, simply filling out applications for adulthood. Like I'm filling out a list and trying to check off boxes to make sure I don't end up a homeless person after this place.

To-do list:
Choose a university.
Earn a regular salary.
Work on people skills.
Speak three languages.
Establish lifelong friendships.
Maintain a normal and mature love life.
Rent a Parisian apartment.
Find another (hopefully free) apartment on the other side of the world.

On the plus side, I've finished everything. All of my IAs, everything is in. It's anti-climactic. No one ran over and popped open some champagne for me and said "Congratulations, you managed not to give yourself a stroke while trying to pass the IB!". Nope. Just handed in some papers and moved on with life.

I think I am happy. I want to hold onto this feeling forever. It's much easier to have faith in everything, in destiny or whatever you'd like to call it, when my pillow still smells like he has just rolled out of bed, when I keep finding his clothes all over my room, when I am smoking his cigarettes, when I am still smiling and laughing about conversations we had. These are all clear, concrete things. It is just like when I came back from Uruguay. My head was so empty, my desires so obvious and easy. I want it to stay this way.

As I've pointed out before, idle hands are the devil's playthings. And although I have had fun succumbing to dancing with the devil before, I don't really feel like letting my hands be playthings for Satan any time soon.

Wow, what a strange metaphor. And what a strange week I have to look forward to. And what a strange life.

We Couldn't Bring the Columns Down

I have become so disillusioned with people that it has surprised me. I can't explain it. I've just taken to noticing a lack of humanity in the way we interact, the way we speak to each other. There are no lines that are not allowed to be crossed anymore; everything seems permissible. There are no distinctions between private and public life. People forget who they are because they are so focused on others. Perhaps we are too immature to simply leave each other alone once in awhile or, more frighteningly, perhaps we've just forgotten how to be compassionate.

On a better note, I now have a saint. It's beautiful, I'm speechless. I've only had it for a few hours and it makes me feel better already. Thank you.

Everything is just so...relevent at the moment. Except perhaps mock exams, which are quite irrelevent and annoying. But everything else. The music I find myself listening to, the things I find myself writing, the rose bush, the book I've just started reading, the conversations I've had recently. It all just coincidentally fits together. It all makes sense.

Fabula.

I'm writing again. Not blog-writing, not email-writing, not essay-writing. Valerie-writing. I'd forgotten how important it is to me to just be able to sit down and write for no one. And not necessarily write about my own life. It's not like diary-writing. It's writing for the sake of writing, writing because the world is intricate, writing because my fingers on the keyboard or my pen on the paper sound nice, writing because I can.

I'm not sure what I'll do with all of my written things. Stories are almost more important than diary entries. Stories tell a lot more about me and about my life than records of what I'm doing or thinking, because stories are uncontrollable. You set out to write complete fiction and only halfway through do you realize that you're not sure anymore whether the story is more fiction than reality or more reality than fiction. But at that point, it's too late and you have to finish the story, no matter how uncomfortable or personal it becomes.

Writing, in some way, also reaffirms my existence. Writing is the manifestation of my thoughts, my passions. Being able to write means that I have something to say, and having something to say is important in the general scheme of things.

Quote of the day, taken randomly from the wall next to my pillow:
"We do not have ideologies, we do not have theologies. We dance."-Libertad El Derecho A Atreverse

Possible.

For once in my life, I am frustrated by possibilities. Usually, possibilities comfort people. They like wondering if they have something to look forward to, like thinking that something might happen, like keeping the hope alive. I, on the other hand, have no patience for possibilities. I want things to happen or not to happen, simple as that. Now, I'm not promoting a black&white way of living, because by this point we should all know that I would rather life within the shades of gray in between. But shades of gray are not about possibilities. Shades of gray are about nuances, small things, moments. But possibilities? They're just about waiting, wasting time, wondering about things generally because someone doesn't have the self-assurance to just give you a straight answer or say something to you themselves. I am completely and entirely fed up with "possible".

And now I'm convinced that this entire post was possibly all misunderstood. Ha. Possibly.

Al Fin Del Mundo

You know, I wrote that Kate Chopin quote on my birthday. And I found out the day after my birthday, the day after I decided to use the quote, that Kate Chopin and I share the same birthday. If that's not fate-filled, I don't know what is.

It was at the end of the world. Misty and foggy and surrounded by water on three sides. It was full of my best friends and good champagne, pretty wooden floors and strong coffee. It's a place that's in the middle of nowhere in Norway, a country that is already in the middle of nowhere itself. And so far out there, dancing salsa and reggaeton and merengue until way too early in the morning, then waking up way too early to sit around in our sweatpants and drink coffee and listen to Jack Johnson....all the way out there, with all those strange things in such a strange place, all of that juxtaposition....and I was more happy than I've been in a long time. And no, not just because of the champagne. Because I was dancing with people I adore, because I was toasting my birthday with my best friends, because my Spanish has finally reached a conversational level, because it was debauchery at its finest.

Beautiful presents (I finally have a Spanish-language copy of "Love in the Times of Cholera"), beautiful food, beautiful wine, beautiful clothes, beautiful scenery, beautiful friends. I am content.

Another year.

"I never dreamed of her making such a mess of things and working out her own damnation as she did. If I had had the slightest intimation of such a thing I would have excluded her from the company. But, when I found out what she was up to, the play was half over and it was then too late." -Kate Chopin

Stars.

I am again annoyed by the lack of respect for other's histories. This time generally because it seems as though everyone thinks that their "problems" are so much greater than everyone else's. They are not. And if you think that they are, then you don't know other people well enough. And this advice applies to me as well, and therefore I will not pain you with a list of all the things that were frustrating today. Because they are small, they are only events, they are not moments of living.

It's days like today that make me realize how incredibly lucky I am to be at this exact moment in my life with these exact people. Today was horrible and stressful and ominously prophetic of what I can expect for the next month. And another me, a younger me, would have gone and crawled in bed and cried. But this me, the now me, ended up okay. Ended up strangely happy, even. That is due mostly to the people I have, the people I care about. The people who make the endless meetings enjoyable, the people who make me smile with an offhand comment at lunch, the people that bake me cakes when I finish my political movement in Extended Essay form (those last people would be my roommates and they deserve specific naming because of the cake and because they are them).

I am too stressed to have a birthday. My mom told me to suck it up and deal with it, because apparently "adults" are always too stressed to have birthdays. Or they just stop caring about them. But I feel like birthdays demand special thought, special attention to meaning and detail. They require nostalgia and evaluations of years past. Birthdays involve philosophy. And I am just far too stressed to do justice to all of that.

Closure. I've realized what it is this time. It's walking away mid-sentence, closing the door, and not actually opening it again to finish the sentence. It's leaving in the middle but forcing it to be the end. It's not pretty, it's not romantic, it's not novel-worthy. But it is still closure.

On that note, I'll end with song lyrics. They're story-like and good enough to justify reproducing a large piece of them. They feel very central, very important. Enjoy them. Great love in realistic form is always an important thing.

"Juliet, the dice was loaded from the start. You promised me everything, you promised me thick and thin. Now you just say oh, Romeo, yeah I used to have a scene with him. Juliet, when we made love, you used to cry. I said I love you like the stars above, I love you til I die. And there's a place for us, you know the movie song. When you gonna realize it was just that the time was wrong, Juliet? I can't do the talk like the talk on the T.V. And I can't do a love song like the way it's meant to be. I can't do everything, but I'd do anything for you. I can't do anything except be in love with you. And all I do is miss you and the way we used to be. And all I do is keep the beat and the bad company. And all I do is kiss you through the bars of Orion. Juliet, I'd do the stars with you any time."

Los Amantes del Circulo Polar

Three things.

First. Loose ends. I'm done with them. They do nothing but entangle me, so I'm done with holding on to them just because I've always been too scared of the possibility of actually losing them. Losing things is okay. I don't feel like I always have to win anymore. It doesn't always have to all make sense. I don't always have to like it. But I can always be myself, always act according to the things I believe in most, always be graceful and dignified. In that way, I don't really lose anything at all.

Second. An apology. A deep, sincere, apology. Now, don't you all go thinking that I don't actually have the maturity and go and apologize in person. I already have. I'm just thinking of this apology a lot. What it means, to go and put yourself out there, vulnerable and emotionally naked, and admit that you are sorry. Well, I am. And I have done that. And it's terrible, because I've been the person on the receiving end of this. I've been left empty. I know what it is to fall apart, I know what it is to watch everything you want slip away no matter what you do. I know it. I feel it. No one deserves it, it is unfair, and it breaks my heart that that is the way things are. I want it to be different. But. It's not.

Third. I spoke to someone tonight. Just a random, probably meaningless conversation. But it made me realize how incredibly lucky I am. Because I know I have something that is full of meaning. Something that I don't have to be sad about, something I don't have to dramatize, something I don't have to question. I have my rock. Every walk, every cigarette, every brush of hands, every stolen kiss, every drink shared, every dinner made, every dance enjoyed, every smile, every phone call, every thought....the depth of the reality of these things hit me tonight. The simple fact that they are real is powerful. And because of that, I am so lucky. Thank you.

"Se que estas lejos de aqui, sonriendo sin reir, escribiendo algo para mi."

Que si, que si.

We spent the day watching America's Next Top Model. Then, we were all inspired to dress up like slutty debutantes and crash the Saturday party. We got crazy to reggaeton, salsa, 80s music, and especially "Noche de Sexo", which is in a category all its own. Danced some more at the afterparty, where we also got bit by Salvatore (don't ask). Became properly sweaty before finally venturing back to the room, only after the last song was played at around 2:00 in the morning. Everyone piled into my corner and sat around gossiping while eating dried fruit and cheese (the only things we had). And now, all of my roommates are passed out in their own beds (amazingly). Except for Andres, who fell asleep on our couch in about two seconds.

All in all, I'd say that this is perfection.

Closure.

An interesting topic. Do we always need it? Can life continue unrestrained if we don't find it, in every situation? Even if I'm not bothered by something, not haunted by it, not consciously aware of it, the coming of closure always provides a most welcome relief. It's like having a weight lifted off of you that you had become so accustomed to that you forgot you were even carrying it. So while you carry this weight, you may not notice it. But once it is gone, you feel lighter. You didn't notice it when it was bad (maybe) but then when it becomes resolved, you definitely notice the good.

I just read over this whole blog. I write an insane amount. It's just so...comforting. And it's nice to read over everything and realize that sometimes, I might actually have intelligent things to say. Now I just need to start taking my own advice.

I often wonder if I sound pretentious. I fear that I do. All broody and dramatic and all in strange English. I don't mean to be. I mean to be honest.

Everything has just begun to align. The reason for my musings on closure are that, I've come to decide, that perhaps I have to learn how to live with loose ends. Perhaps I have to learn how to participate in a knock-'em-down, drag-'em-out fight for a long time. Is that enough, to realize that closure may never happen?

I've noticed today that what bothers me is a general lack of respect for history. Now this is all kinds of history. It is political history, when people fail to see the nuances of an issue because they don't understand where it arose from. It is experiential history, when people fail to cease doing something even though the past shows it should not be done. It is social history, when people fail to recognize the histories of others, the memories and the pasts and the moments of others and simply choose to act upon however they feel at that point in time, regardless of the mountains of things other people have built up both for each other and for themselves. It is personal history, when people fail to learn from themselves. A general lack of history. I feel it as a constant annoyance.

A quote, from an earlier blog, but that is important. I still love the quote from yesterday, though.

"If we overcome space, then all we have left is here. And if we overcome time, then all we have left is now. And in the middle of here and now, don't you think we'll see each other once or twice?"-Jonathan Livingston Seagull