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.

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?)

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.

The things I only do in secret.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suffering From Suffrage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Writing about writing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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