Today, I was behind someone in a large GMC SUV (hopefully that part of the company will die for good with this bankruptcy thing...but it will, more likely, be sold to China just like everything else). This SUV, with its various bumper sticker messages, was actually quite hilarious. I wish I had had a camera on me. There was, of course, the required "W: the president" sticker (if you've never seen one...then you've never spent an hour on an American road). Also, there was a "I Support Our Troops" sticker in red, white and blue, and obviously a "NObama!". But these three stickers are quite common sights. What made this all the better was the "Who is John Galt?" on the back window and the "Drill Here, Drill Now, Pay Less" on the bumper. I wish I had had a marker to edit that last one with: "Drill Here (just not in my backyard), Drill Now (no really, right now), Pay Less (until our oil runs out)." And all of this on the back of the ultimate symbol of stubbornly myopic American business and consumerism. Ah, yes.
For more:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Galt,
http://www.notdependant.com/,
http://www.goingjohngalt.org/blog/
And, on a completely-different-but-really-not-so-different-topic:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hzw_ZoZ7cLg&feature=channel_page (love the little girl at the end)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wp76ly2_NoI&feature=channel (should I be scared?)
Okay but honestly, when are we finally, FINALLY, going to change the way we are structured as a society? Why does everything always have to be yes/no, rather than up for a discussion resulting in several different answers? The yes/no mentality, the two-party mentality, however you like to think of it, we need to grow out of it already. There are no excuses for our limited, minimal, strict ideologies and no excuses for us to keep elevating our most extreme ideologues to prominent positions. Now is just the beginning, but I can only hope that in the next few years or decades, we will finally stop ridiculing those who fall somewhere in the grey area between our black and white policies and platforms. Liberalism, I truly believe, can only be achieved by those who allow for liberal discussion; that is, discussion involving the greatest number of viewpoints possible heard in a rational and reasonable environment. And no, I don't mean liberalism like every American would think I do (in other words, I'm not using liberalism as synonymous with hedonism or socialism, but rather with philosophical democracy and basic human rights). And, as evidenced by the recent Pelosi scandal in which the Speaker of the House, Nancy Pelosi, stated that herself and Congress had not been truly informed about what was going on in American foreign prisons under the Bush administration and was therefore summarily humiliated into silence by many politicians and the media, we no longer possess a rational and reasonable environment for the two platforms we do have to be presented, let alone other platforms. This, above all, must change. There are no gathering storms except for those we are creating for ourselves, wasting valuable time and resources, disillusioning those that might actually have had true hope and motivation at one point. For now, I'm just going to keep believing that we can and will do better because to think otherwise would, quite honestly, make me a fairly nihilistic person.
They might not have it all right, but no one does. Check out the other third parties listed on their homepage if you're interested in American politics beyond red and blue (yes, non-Republican, non-Democrat parties do exist! Kind of). It's all a start.
http://www.unityparty.us/platform-unity-party.htm
And to everyone eligible to vote in the European Parliament elections, I sincerely hope you do vote and I sincerely hope that you feel responsible for your vote. It is so important for people to feel responsible for and invested in their actions in the democratic arena. Responsibility leads to legitimacy, and legitimacy leads to continued hope.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Friday, May 22, 2009
Inadvertent Tears in Recent History.
I won't even try to make excuses for my lack of postings. There are no excuses. Sorry.
So much has happened since my last sign of life appeared in the blogosphere (ew, I hate that word and I hate people who use it. They're just like people that say "twenty-something". So I say blogosphere with a touch of irony). To be honest, I've neglected posting simply because I haven't thought of a way to coherently outline everything in one post. But then last night, on my way home from work, in the middle of a spontaneous outburst of tears, I realized that was the best structure with which to explain my last few months: the frequency of my recent accidental crying.
While watching Jean Michel Cousteau's "Oceans" on PBS
I didn't really think too much about this TV special but I happened to (accidentally) see Jean Michel Cousteau being interviewed about it the same day it was meant to air. This made me think to record the program on my TiVo, just in case I was ever bored enough to watch it. I got around to watching the show one night after work, probably two weeks later. I was close to deleting it from the TiVo, but my childhood love of orca whales persuaded me to at least watch a few minutes. Well, lo and behold, I watch the whole damn two hour program, crying through most of it. Yes, crying. Because of whales. And you know what tipped me over the edge? They were talking about whales in captivity and about Keiko, the orca from "Free Willy" that was trained to be released into the wild. Well, when they went to release Keiko into the wild after decades of captivity, the other whales basically ignored him. After a few months, some whales went from ignoring him to picking on him, in a whale sort of way. And this struck me as awfully, terribly sad. We had taken this whale from his family, put him in captivity, and made him so dependent on humans that he was literally no longer an orca whale. He had done everything we had asked him to do, been everything we asked him to be, but when we asked him to be a whale again, he couldn't do it. I could only think that he must have felt like the humans who were once his "family" had abandoned him into a world he knew nothing about, left him to be ostracised and ridiculed by his own kind, and then refused to take him back. Keiko was released near Iceland and swam all the way to Norway, where he moved into a fjord. He swam up to fishing boats and swimming children, but the people had no idea how to take care of him or who he was or what he needed. He died just a year after he was released. And I would swear he died of a broken heart. Now, of course it's all a whole lot deeper than that and I wasn't just crying for one single whale. But you can infer the meaning of my empathy. The point is, it caught me entirely by surprise. It was accidental crying.
While sleeping next to you
Since I last wrote, I have been to Paris and back. When I first arrived, I was horribly, disgustingly ill. Emphasis on disgusting. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and could hardly breathe. Everyone and their mothers asked me if I had swine flu, people on the airplane gave me dirty looks as I sweat out a fever, and I felt like a pathetically ugly duckling walking the streets of the most beautiful city I know. Then, after a surprisingly nice visit to a French doctor and heavy doses of morphine-laced French prescriptions (no, I'm not kidding. Medicine in that country is great), I began to feel better. This was also in no small part to Marc's taking care of me through all the grossness, and even acting like he didn't mind it. We did a million things in Paris and I had the most wonderful time. But lying there every night, I wanted to cry and sometimes did, for no concrete reason. I kept thinking of the person who had said they were sincerely sorry for me when they found out about my long distance relationship. "Sincerely sorry". The words struck me as profoundly sad. She wasn't impressed, she didn't wish me luck, she didn't say she was amazed. She didn't have the normal reaction. Instead, she chose to say she was sorry about it. like it was a disease or a disability. And every night, laying there in a too-small bed, I felt kind of sorry for us. Just vaguely sympathetic, as if I were an objective third party floating over the room, watching the two of us sleep through precious moments together, holding onto each other unconsciously as though we could be separated at any moment. Those nights account for yet another bout of accidental crying.
While reading a book on the origins of Islam
This one I won't go into too much detail about because it would be cruel to make you read all the thoughts and opinions I've developed on the topic of Islam. In very brief summary, I read a wonderful book about the evolution of Islam. "No god but God" by Reza Aslan. I cannot urge you to read it enough, whether you are Muslim or Christian or an atheist or you don't give a shit about religion. It doesn't matter. Read this book. In summary, it made me cry not because it was sad in and of itself, but because what I thought I knew about Islam was pathetically ignorant, because human beings have destroyed yet another beautiful thing through hunger for power and control, and because it is so teeth-grindingly frustrating to to see what Islam has become today, perverted by the perceptions of people who don't understand and by some who practice it. And yes, you can say the same things about Christianity. You can say the same things about the government of the United States, about baseball, or about socialism, or anything else. But this book on Islam seemed especially poignant to me, causing me to accidentally cry yet again.
While at my sister's graduation
This might seem like an obvious one. But I didn't find myself crying because I was so proud of my sister for graduating (not that I'm not proud of her) or because I saw us all growing up and moving on with our lives and boo hoo how sad. No. What made me cry was when they played "Pomp and Circumstance". And I cried because no one played that song at my graduation. I cried because in some ways, graduation for me was all right but in others, all wrong. Selfish of me to think like that, maybe. But really, if I could have a do-over, I would make sure that song was played at some point in the ceremony. (I would also have never even mentioned the possibility of having a seating chart but hey, live and learn, right?)
And while on the subject of graduation...the best I can tell you at this point is just breathe and keep yourself in the moment. Don't think about what will happen during the next hour or next day or next year. Just keep yourself in the moment, force yourself to live it, no matter how hard it may be or how tempting it might be to do your best to ignore the full weight of it. Hold on. Smoke your last cigarette in Smoker's Corner, even though it will likely be the most awkward cigarette you've had in two years. Stick around to take a lot of pictures, even if you just feel like going and being alone or packing up the rest of your things. Stop in front of the fjord one last time and silently hold each other's hands because really, there's nothing else you can do. Look out the window of the bus because even though it is painful, it is better than looking down at that dirty floor during your last moments on campus and on those winding roads. And let yourself cry, whether you expect to or not. Accidental crying's not so bad.
While driving home last night from work
For some reason, the drive home from my new place of employment (an adorably hidden German biergarten) was empty. No one on the roads. Just me and my hundreds of thoughts on normally packed thoroughfares. And yeah, I turned to the cliched "driving down a long and dark road is like my life" metaphor. I started thinking about where I'd come from during the last 3 years in comparison to where I am now. I started thinking about how I am doubly relieved and nauseated by the thought of knowing what I want to study for the next 6-8 years (it's going to be international law, ideally with a Latin American and European Union focus). I mentally calculated the possibilities that this summer represents. I tried to project what next year means for us, for all of us. I listened to Spoon's "Black Like Me" and thought about how none of you were there, how quickly time is passing, how scared I am of failure in the next chapter of my life, how far away it all seems. I was sideswiped by the notion that everything is just always so damn frightening. And this, more than anything, made me cry the strangest tears of all, tears of nostalgia and frustration and fear but also of realization and satisfaction and hope. Mostly, they were inadvertent tears consequential of too much of emotion of any kind, not just sadness. Which is a good explanation of the cause of all of my recent accidental crying. Too much of everything.
Edit// Alright, now it is six incidents of accidental crying. The last 5 minutes of Season 2, Episode 1 of The Office just happened. And it's only halfway pathetic that The Office made me cry. Sort of pathetic, but not entirely.
So much has happened since my last sign of life appeared in the blogosphere (ew, I hate that word and I hate people who use it. They're just like people that say "twenty-something". So I say blogosphere with a touch of irony). To be honest, I've neglected posting simply because I haven't thought of a way to coherently outline everything in one post. But then last night, on my way home from work, in the middle of a spontaneous outburst of tears, I realized that was the best structure with which to explain my last few months: the frequency of my recent accidental crying.
While watching Jean Michel Cousteau's "Oceans" on PBS
I didn't really think too much about this TV special but I happened to (accidentally) see Jean Michel Cousteau being interviewed about it the same day it was meant to air. This made me think to record the program on my TiVo, just in case I was ever bored enough to watch it. I got around to watching the show one night after work, probably two weeks later. I was close to deleting it from the TiVo, but my childhood love of orca whales persuaded me to at least watch a few minutes. Well, lo and behold, I watch the whole damn two hour program, crying through most of it. Yes, crying. Because of whales. And you know what tipped me over the edge? They were talking about whales in captivity and about Keiko, the orca from "Free Willy" that was trained to be released into the wild. Well, when they went to release Keiko into the wild after decades of captivity, the other whales basically ignored him. After a few months, some whales went from ignoring him to picking on him, in a whale sort of way. And this struck me as awfully, terribly sad. We had taken this whale from his family, put him in captivity, and made him so dependent on humans that he was literally no longer an orca whale. He had done everything we had asked him to do, been everything we asked him to be, but when we asked him to be a whale again, he couldn't do it. I could only think that he must have felt like the humans who were once his "family" had abandoned him into a world he knew nothing about, left him to be ostracised and ridiculed by his own kind, and then refused to take him back. Keiko was released near Iceland and swam all the way to Norway, where he moved into a fjord. He swam up to fishing boats and swimming children, but the people had no idea how to take care of him or who he was or what he needed. He died just a year after he was released. And I would swear he died of a broken heart. Now, of course it's all a whole lot deeper than that and I wasn't just crying for one single whale. But you can infer the meaning of my empathy. The point is, it caught me entirely by surprise. It was accidental crying.
While sleeping next to you
Since I last wrote, I have been to Paris and back. When I first arrived, I was horribly, disgustingly ill. Emphasis on disgusting. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and could hardly breathe. Everyone and their mothers asked me if I had swine flu, people on the airplane gave me dirty looks as I sweat out a fever, and I felt like a pathetically ugly duckling walking the streets of the most beautiful city I know. Then, after a surprisingly nice visit to a French doctor and heavy doses of morphine-laced French prescriptions (no, I'm not kidding. Medicine in that country is great), I began to feel better. This was also in no small part to Marc's taking care of me through all the grossness, and even acting like he didn't mind it. We did a million things in Paris and I had the most wonderful time. But lying there every night, I wanted to cry and sometimes did, for no concrete reason. I kept thinking of the person who had said they were sincerely sorry for me when they found out about my long distance relationship. "Sincerely sorry". The words struck me as profoundly sad. She wasn't impressed, she didn't wish me luck, she didn't say she was amazed. She didn't have the normal reaction. Instead, she chose to say she was sorry about it. like it was a disease or a disability. And every night, laying there in a too-small bed, I felt kind of sorry for us. Just vaguely sympathetic, as if I were an objective third party floating over the room, watching the two of us sleep through precious moments together, holding onto each other unconsciously as though we could be separated at any moment. Those nights account for yet another bout of accidental crying.
While reading a book on the origins of Islam
This one I won't go into too much detail about because it would be cruel to make you read all the thoughts and opinions I've developed on the topic of Islam. In very brief summary, I read a wonderful book about the evolution of Islam. "No god but God" by Reza Aslan. I cannot urge you to read it enough, whether you are Muslim or Christian or an atheist or you don't give a shit about religion. It doesn't matter. Read this book. In summary, it made me cry not because it was sad in and of itself, but because what I thought I knew about Islam was pathetically ignorant, because human beings have destroyed yet another beautiful thing through hunger for power and control, and because it is so teeth-grindingly frustrating to to see what Islam has become today, perverted by the perceptions of people who don't understand and by some who practice it. And yes, you can say the same things about Christianity. You can say the same things about the government of the United States, about baseball, or about socialism, or anything else. But this book on Islam seemed especially poignant to me, causing me to accidentally cry yet again.
While at my sister's graduation
This might seem like an obvious one. But I didn't find myself crying because I was so proud of my sister for graduating (not that I'm not proud of her) or because I saw us all growing up and moving on with our lives and boo hoo how sad. No. What made me cry was when they played "Pomp and Circumstance". And I cried because no one played that song at my graduation. I cried because in some ways, graduation for me was all right but in others, all wrong. Selfish of me to think like that, maybe. But really, if I could have a do-over, I would make sure that song was played at some point in the ceremony. (I would also have never even mentioned the possibility of having a seating chart but hey, live and learn, right?)
And while on the subject of graduation...the best I can tell you at this point is just breathe and keep yourself in the moment. Don't think about what will happen during the next hour or next day or next year. Just keep yourself in the moment, force yourself to live it, no matter how hard it may be or how tempting it might be to do your best to ignore the full weight of it. Hold on. Smoke your last cigarette in Smoker's Corner, even though it will likely be the most awkward cigarette you've had in two years. Stick around to take a lot of pictures, even if you just feel like going and being alone or packing up the rest of your things. Stop in front of the fjord one last time and silently hold each other's hands because really, there's nothing else you can do. Look out the window of the bus because even though it is painful, it is better than looking down at that dirty floor during your last moments on campus and on those winding roads. And let yourself cry, whether you expect to or not. Accidental crying's not so bad.
While driving home last night from work
For some reason, the drive home from my new place of employment (an adorably hidden German biergarten) was empty. No one on the roads. Just me and my hundreds of thoughts on normally packed thoroughfares. And yeah, I turned to the cliched "driving down a long and dark road is like my life" metaphor. I started thinking about where I'd come from during the last 3 years in comparison to where I am now. I started thinking about how I am doubly relieved and nauseated by the thought of knowing what I want to study for the next 6-8 years (it's going to be international law, ideally with a Latin American and European Union focus). I mentally calculated the possibilities that this summer represents. I tried to project what next year means for us, for all of us. I listened to Spoon's "Black Like Me" and thought about how none of you were there, how quickly time is passing, how scared I am of failure in the next chapter of my life, how far away it all seems. I was sideswiped by the notion that everything is just always so damn frightening. And this, more than anything, made me cry the strangest tears of all, tears of nostalgia and frustration and fear but also of realization and satisfaction and hope. Mostly, they were inadvertent tears consequential of too much of emotion of any kind, not just sadness. Which is a good explanation of the cause of all of my recent accidental crying. Too much of everything.
Edit// Alright, now it is six incidents of accidental crying. The last 5 minutes of Season 2, Episode 1 of The Office just happened. And it's only halfway pathetic that The Office made me cry. Sort of pathetic, but not entirely.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Lightness and Weight.
Sometimes, I think I wish I could be everywhere at once. Or rather, I could be everywhere I wanted to be when I wanted to be there. I wish I could just will myself to be next to someone who needs it, wish I could do my makeup in my room at home then step out the door into a Norwegian cabin with my best friends, wish I could hear how you're doing and then find myself sitting across a table from you, holding your hand while you calm down, wish I could fall asleep in one place and wake up in another. I often think that I want to be able to do those things.
But then I start to really think about it. I realize that if I could do that, if I could be anywhere I wanted to be instantaneously, then life becomes absurd. Time and place drop away. Those things that keep me anchored to this world cease to mean anything at all. In the American folktale, "Jonathan Livingston Seagull", Jonathan comes to understand so much that time and place mean nothing to him. He can fly to the past, to the future, to New England or India or Pluto....he can, literally, go to any thought. I avoid saying any place or any time because place and time mean nothing to a life lived outside of them. Jonathan thinks this is a beautiful thing, the moral of the story being that through knowledge and passion, we can all break our earthly chains and become bigger than our mere biology. This is implied as beautiful, as desirable. As much as I love the story (and honestly, read it if you haven't. It'll take you an hour), part of the message is wrong.
Breaking free from everything that holds you to anything is horrible, soul-robbing, and terrifying. It's inhuman. I'm sorry, Rousseau, but when you lamented that man is born free yet everywhere he is in chains, your emotions were misplaced. For the simple fact that we are free but yet not free, because we are anchored to time and to place, we are human. We are more than nothing. If an event happens over and over again into infinity, it becomes meaningless. Eternal return is not the heaviest of burdens, it is the absolute lightest. It is nothing. And nothing is not freedom. Nothing is a lonelier and more frightening prison than any that man could create out of something.
It is our inability to be anywhere we want to be that allows us to live a significant life, a life of genuine love and passion. Love could not exist in infinity. Love is our fitful grasping at happiness for we know it is temporary. Love in and of itself requires the temporality of human beings. Passion is what fuels us to do as much as we can because we do not have forever and because we cannot do everything. Passion allows us to prioritize, to focus, to do the most we possibly can while the ever-quickening pace of mortality tries --ultimately always does-- to beat us to the finish line. Because we can never be fully done, we are allowed love and passion. Both depend on time. Both depend on place. Both depend on certain chains. So when I start to think that I wish I could be anywhere whenever I wanted to be, I remember that not having that ability is what allows me to want to be anywhere in the first place. And for that, I am grateful.
But then I start to really think about it. I realize that if I could do that, if I could be anywhere I wanted to be instantaneously, then life becomes absurd. Time and place drop away. Those things that keep me anchored to this world cease to mean anything at all. In the American folktale, "Jonathan Livingston Seagull", Jonathan comes to understand so much that time and place mean nothing to him. He can fly to the past, to the future, to New England or India or Pluto....he can, literally, go to any thought. I avoid saying any place or any time because place and time mean nothing to a life lived outside of them. Jonathan thinks this is a beautiful thing, the moral of the story being that through knowledge and passion, we can all break our earthly chains and become bigger than our mere biology. This is implied as beautiful, as desirable. As much as I love the story (and honestly, read it if you haven't. It'll take you an hour), part of the message is wrong.
Breaking free from everything that holds you to anything is horrible, soul-robbing, and terrifying. It's inhuman. I'm sorry, Rousseau, but when you lamented that man is born free yet everywhere he is in chains, your emotions were misplaced. For the simple fact that we are free but yet not free, because we are anchored to time and to place, we are human. We are more than nothing. If an event happens over and over again into infinity, it becomes meaningless. Eternal return is not the heaviest of burdens, it is the absolute lightest. It is nothing. And nothing is not freedom. Nothing is a lonelier and more frightening prison than any that man could create out of something.
It is our inability to be anywhere we want to be that allows us to live a significant life, a life of genuine love and passion. Love could not exist in infinity. Love is our fitful grasping at happiness for we know it is temporary. Love in and of itself requires the temporality of human beings. Passion is what fuels us to do as much as we can because we do not have forever and because we cannot do everything. Passion allows us to prioritize, to focus, to do the most we possibly can while the ever-quickening pace of mortality tries --ultimately always does-- to beat us to the finish line. Because we can never be fully done, we are allowed love and passion. Both depend on time. Both depend on place. Both depend on certain chains. So when I start to think that I wish I could be anywhere whenever I wanted to be, I remember that not having that ability is what allows me to want to be anywhere in the first place. And for that, I am grateful.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Other people should stop blogging. Their eloquent, detailed, and anecdotal posts make mine look like crap. All of my blog-rearranging is a pitiful attempt to make my own blogging look better. I'm hoping that Simone de Beauvoir will inspire me from her permanent seat in Les Deux Magots now.
(other people really should not stop blogging. if they did, life would be just a smidge less interesting. and since some people have recently become much less entertaining on facebook, I count on all of you to fill that entertainment gap with some good blogging, ok?)
(other people really should not stop blogging. if they did, life would be just a smidge less interesting. and since some people have recently become much less entertaining on facebook, I count on all of you to fill that entertainment gap with some good blogging, ok?)
Monday, January 26, 2009
Stray dogs and Valeries
There is a dog in my house. To be more specific, there is a dog in my bathroom. My family is not a dog-family. We don't know the first thing about dogs. We have no idea what they eat or how often they go to the bathroom or how to walk them. We just don't. But nevertheless, there is a dog in my bathroom. I was driving down a road near my house today and I found her in the middle of the road. And no one with a heart could leave a dog in the middle of the road. So I picked it up and brought it home. My family has been running around all day trying to find it food and blankets, taking it outside, petting it, and generally just being so worried of doing something wrong and breaking it. It. I mean her. Whatever. Dog. But Dog is not staying. Tomorrow morning, Dog is going to the vet's office. Dog has a family somewhere and Dog should go back to that family. Hopefully the vet can find Dog's family. I feel kind of bad for Dog, because I think she's pretty happy here. But there's no avoiding the fact that she has to go back to her real life with her real family.
I feel like Dog. I feel like I had a good family and a good life for eighteen years. For eighteen years, beds were warm, people were good, food was always around, and I was trained pretty well. But then, somewhere along the way, I got lost. And I spent a lot of time just wandering the streets. With no direction, no purpose, no stability. I wandered and I wandered for a long time. But then, someone and some place picked me up and I found home again. I found myself again. And I was oh so comfortable and happy. But the whole time, I knew that I would inevitably be sent back to my real life with my real family. Not that that wasn't a good life, it was just....an old life. A "before" life. Not an "after" life. That life didn't grow with me. I readjusted, I changed, I grew, but it didn't. I found my "after" life, or at least part of it, when I got picked up and taken somewhere else. And I was happy. But then one day I got dropped off at the airport and woke up in the same bed I'd left almost three years ago. Now I'm still pretty happy. But that directionlessness is creeping back in. That restlessness, that lack of purpose. And it makes me feel bad for Dog, because even if her old family is a good one and she'll be happy to go back, it might only be half-heartedly. Okay, maybe that's me with the half-heartedly business, but whatever. I still think that Dog will feel kind of bad leaving us. Because maybe all she needed was someone to pick her up and put her somewhere else for a change, let her be a different dog for a change, be loved in a new way for a change. I know that's what I needed, and I'm starting to miss it already.
I feel like Dog. I feel like I had a good family and a good life for eighteen years. For eighteen years, beds were warm, people were good, food was always around, and I was trained pretty well. But then, somewhere along the way, I got lost. And I spent a lot of time just wandering the streets. With no direction, no purpose, no stability. I wandered and I wandered for a long time. But then, someone and some place picked me up and I found home again. I found myself again. And I was oh so comfortable and happy. But the whole time, I knew that I would inevitably be sent back to my real life with my real family. Not that that wasn't a good life, it was just....an old life. A "before" life. Not an "after" life. That life didn't grow with me. I readjusted, I changed, I grew, but it didn't. I found my "after" life, or at least part of it, when I got picked up and taken somewhere else. And I was happy. But then one day I got dropped off at the airport and woke up in the same bed I'd left almost three years ago. Now I'm still pretty happy. But that directionlessness is creeping back in. That restlessness, that lack of purpose. And it makes me feel bad for Dog, because even if her old family is a good one and she'll be happy to go back, it might only be half-heartedly. Okay, maybe that's me with the half-heartedly business, but whatever. I still think that Dog will feel kind of bad leaving us. Because maybe all she needed was someone to pick her up and put her somewhere else for a change, let her be a different dog for a change, be loved in a new way for a change. I know that's what I needed, and I'm starting to miss it already.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
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.
Monday, October 27, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, October 10, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, September 29, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
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.
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.
Friday, September 12, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, September 8, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
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?
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?
Thursday, August 21, 2008
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.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
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.
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.
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