Time has me by the throat today.
Perhaps it is because it is Sunday, the saddest day, chased relentlessly by history, lost love, death, and unrealized hopes.
I am very sad to be leaving and feel almost I shouldn't go.
I saw a play built on improvisations a company of actors generated from everyday objects. The play was entitled Les Ephemeres--ephemeral moments--and was a mélange of vignettes built upon cinematically iconic moments...moments that stemmed from both individual and group subconscious as stirred by the memories and nostalgia which accompanied the original objects. I was disarmed and unprepared for the intensity of the struggle ongoing in this nation to reconcile the war with reality, with any system of being or living. Twice during the viewing, individual audience members collapsed, stricken by the play's content, and were attended by emergency services.
I now understand the heaviness one feels in Europe, is the burden of the past. France was an occupied nation. We can't understand this in America, a nation that has never been so violated by 'the other.' Our homes destroyed, heritage razed, children shot, and humanity betrayed for the fear of staying alive. The war BREATHES in France. It is in the collective memory and consciousness. This LAND, the very land I walk on is a palimpsest of fate's collusion: the blurring of right and wrong, aggressor and victim, man and animal.
This epiphany haunts me.
I am afraid to return to America, where the virginity of even our land, our youthful innocence makes it too possible to forget.
I am at once terrified and soothed by the ghosts of this landscape.
dimanche 20 avril 2008
samedi 19 avril 2008
Tragedey
I have been living in Paris for 7.5 months without being kissed ONE SINGLE TIME.
For Christ's sake, this is the fucking capital of LOVE and ROMANCE.
This is a serious emergency and must be remedied before I part across the atlantic for goodsies.
I will work assiduosly to redress this grievance in as timely a manner as humanly possible.
Thank you for your convenance.
For Christ's sake, this is the fucking capital of LOVE and ROMANCE.
This is a serious emergency and must be remedied before I part across the atlantic for goodsies.
I will work assiduosly to redress this grievance in as timely a manner as humanly possible.
Thank you for your convenance.
mardi 15 avril 2008
Children
Today I proposed to Adele that we visit the Zoo de Vincennes tomorrow, weather permiting.
This is when Sam said:
"Je suis heureux que je ne serai dispo demain d'y aller avec vous." (I'm glad I won't be able to go with you two tomorrow.)
"Why not Sam, don't you like the zoo?"
"Not at all, it is so sad there. All the animals is in cages. You think they aren't unhappy but I know they really are. Imagine you is an animal and just you must spend all day in a cage, you not can move and be free, and you not can be with the other animals that are like you or your family. And, all the peoples that they pass you know you is not happy, but anyways they just stare and take pictures of how much you are sad."
"Yes!" adds Adele. "And all day you must be all naked!"
That's empathy.
This is when Sam said:
"Je suis heureux que je ne serai dispo demain d'y aller avec vous." (I'm glad I won't be able to go with you two tomorrow.)
"Why not Sam, don't you like the zoo?"
"Not at all, it is so sad there. All the animals is in cages. You think they aren't unhappy but I know they really are. Imagine you is an animal and just you must spend all day in a cage, you not can move and be free, and you not can be with the other animals that are like you or your family. And, all the peoples that they pass you know you is not happy, but anyways they just stare and take pictures of how much you are sad."
"Yes!" adds Adele. "And all day you must be all naked!"
That's empathy.
vendredi 11 avril 2008
On the event of Mr. Jewett’s retirement party
Dear Mr. J,
Thank you.
In real time, I am asleep in a comfortable bed in Paris, France. Or, less responsibly, perhaps I am enjoying a glass of red wine with friends, the early evening having been spent wandering the Louvre after hours.
Yet in time as the heart perceives it, I am here, at this present moment, in Hingham Massachusetts, with all assembled, celebrating you.
I am here because my voice is present—present in my thoughts, feelings, and opinions as I give issue to them, through words. And this Mr. Jewett, is what I have come to thank you for.
As a 10th grade English student, I was an unformed individual. An adolescent. A blob. My role in the world was therefore befittingly puerile; after all, the only skill I could boast was in composing a pat thesis essay, and with regards to self-knowledge…I was certain I would one day marry my High School boyfriend. Yet like most teenagers—bombarded by the world as they take first glimpses of life beyond their own existence—what I lacked in experience and eloquence, I compensated for with FEELINGS. LOTS AND LOTS OF FEELINGS.
Many of us laugh at naiveté, but Mr. J, you didn’t. Perhaps you feel as I do that while kids sometimes have a hard time processing the new world they see, their observations of it can be strikingly perspicacious and unbiased. I will not go so far as to make presuppositions about the personal beliefs that guided you as a teacher and a mentor, but I will say that as a 15 year old in your class, I learned that while recognizing truth makes us human, speaking for truth makes us extraordinary.
This is how you taught me to find my voice.
To begin: you made our class psychoanalyze Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations, proving to me that the individual life counted, that (contrary to the rules of proper essay writing) employing the first person mattered. In many ways, I think of this assignment more as a lesson on courage, than on close reading.
Drawing inspiration from Joseph Campbell’s writings on comparative mythology, and Star Wars, you then had us try our hands at creative writing. You were the first person to ask me to author a story, and thereby the first individual who asked me to set out, concretely, my inner reality. Through these first exercises in autonomy of thought, I began to learn who I was, what I thought, and where I stood.
That is where you took your teaching one step farther. You helped a small group of students become peer facilitators for the Anti-Defamation League’s A World of Difference program, initiating a student corps that traveled school, community, and statewide working to eradicate hatred, bigotry and intolerance while promoting social justice. I am the empowered, socially active and conscientious woman I am today, because at 16 you showed me, Mr. Jewett, that in exercising my voice, I and any other human being have the agency to shape and mold our world for the better. My voice can sound louder than simple idealism or politicking; words are thought and thought is power: words are change.
Aside from the love of my family, this is perhaps the greatest gift I have ever received.
And, I would endeavor to say, that generations of young people with courage of conviction and words to bolster, is perhaps one of the greatest gifts the world could ever possibly receive.
We all have you to thank for that.
With much admiration,
Caitlin
Thank you.
In real time, I am asleep in a comfortable bed in Paris, France. Or, less responsibly, perhaps I am enjoying a glass of red wine with friends, the early evening having been spent wandering the Louvre after hours.
Yet in time as the heart perceives it, I am here, at this present moment, in Hingham Massachusetts, with all assembled, celebrating you.
I am here because my voice is present—present in my thoughts, feelings, and opinions as I give issue to them, through words. And this Mr. Jewett, is what I have come to thank you for.
As a 10th grade English student, I was an unformed individual. An adolescent. A blob. My role in the world was therefore befittingly puerile; after all, the only skill I could boast was in composing a pat thesis essay, and with regards to self-knowledge…I was certain I would one day marry my High School boyfriend. Yet like most teenagers—bombarded by the world as they take first glimpses of life beyond their own existence—what I lacked in experience and eloquence, I compensated for with FEELINGS. LOTS AND LOTS OF FEELINGS.
Many of us laugh at naiveté, but Mr. J, you didn’t. Perhaps you feel as I do that while kids sometimes have a hard time processing the new world they see, their observations of it can be strikingly perspicacious and unbiased. I will not go so far as to make presuppositions about the personal beliefs that guided you as a teacher and a mentor, but I will say that as a 15 year old in your class, I learned that while recognizing truth makes us human, speaking for truth makes us extraordinary.
This is how you taught me to find my voice.
To begin: you made our class psychoanalyze Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations, proving to me that the individual life counted, that (contrary to the rules of proper essay writing) employing the first person mattered. In many ways, I think of this assignment more as a lesson on courage, than on close reading.
Drawing inspiration from Joseph Campbell’s writings on comparative mythology, and Star Wars, you then had us try our hands at creative writing. You were the first person to ask me to author a story, and thereby the first individual who asked me to set out, concretely, my inner reality. Through these first exercises in autonomy of thought, I began to learn who I was, what I thought, and where I stood.
That is where you took your teaching one step farther. You helped a small group of students become peer facilitators for the Anti-Defamation League’s A World of Difference program, initiating a student corps that traveled school, community, and statewide working to eradicate hatred, bigotry and intolerance while promoting social justice. I am the empowered, socially active and conscientious woman I am today, because at 16 you showed me, Mr. Jewett, that in exercising my voice, I and any other human being have the agency to shape and mold our world for the better. My voice can sound louder than simple idealism or politicking; words are thought and thought is power: words are change.
Aside from the love of my family, this is perhaps the greatest gift I have ever received.
And, I would endeavor to say, that generations of young people with courage of conviction and words to bolster, is perhaps one of the greatest gifts the world could ever possibly receive.
We all have you to thank for that.
With much admiration,
Caitlin
jeudi 10 avril 2008
On a less serious note
The past weekend while patronizing an Absinthe bar in the 11th, I happened to be a few knocks into a very pleasant drunk when I finally decided to indulge in a long overdue rant on the French toilette system.
I might have said something along the lines of:
"WHAT THE FUCK IS WITH THE TWO FLUSHY BUTTONS ON THE FUCKING TOILETTE? IT'S SO FUCKING ANNOYING AND REDUNDANT AND WRACKS ME WITH SELF-DOUBT AND UNCERTAINTY EACH TIME I HEED THE FUCKING CALL OF NATURE."
To which my friends applied in tones that might even have been patronizing had they secretly not been wasted:
"Um, one's for when you poop...and the other is for pee...it's an energy conserving toilette (YOU BOOBY)."
Just as I was beginning to feel as freakish as Ron Paul or any other Republican running for office, a dear friend came to my rescue with her astute observation going something like this:
"In reality...they're only energy saving for men who don't wipe after 'number one.' 50% of the population has to use the poop button NO MATTER WHAT, ergo rendering the pee buttom a vestigial and clearly phallus oriented technology representative of society's larger sexism problem."
What she said.
Two pee buttons is recockulous.
I might have said something along the lines of:
"WHAT THE FUCK IS WITH THE TWO FLUSHY BUTTONS ON THE FUCKING TOILETTE? IT'S SO FUCKING ANNOYING AND REDUNDANT AND WRACKS ME WITH SELF-DOUBT AND UNCERTAINTY EACH TIME I HEED THE FUCKING CALL OF NATURE."
To which my friends applied in tones that might even have been patronizing had they secretly not been wasted:
"Um, one's for when you poop...and the other is for pee...it's an energy conserving toilette (YOU BOOBY)."
Just as I was beginning to feel as freakish as Ron Paul or any other Republican running for office, a dear friend came to my rescue with her astute observation going something like this:
"In reality...they're only energy saving for men who don't wipe after 'number one.' 50% of the population has to use the poop button NO MATTER WHAT, ergo rendering the pee buttom a vestigial and clearly phallus oriented technology representative of society's larger sexism problem."
What she said.
Two pee buttons is recockulous.
Most Respectfully...
Stop popping up in my dreams
After much time, loss, and struggle
I have come to peace with you
Please
Address your sad conscience
that my consciousness
nations
and lifetimes away
may pass a quiet night
finally at rest
After much time, loss, and struggle
I have come to peace with you
Please
Address your sad conscience
that my consciousness
nations
and lifetimes away
may pass a quiet night
finally at rest
dimanche 6 avril 2008
Fragments
Bits and pieces that must not be forgotten that one day will will be woven into a coherent whole:
1. once there was a man who had never before left his village or country. perhaps he was not very bright, or perhaps he had not seen many white women, but he mistook my freckles and moles for mosquito bites.
2. accordian school
3. drink whenever the screen scrolls "ANTHRAX."
Other things in my head:
westerns and lawlessness
magic words. the heart
my beautiful, immpenetrable brother
children of young years know that the hill is there so they may roll down it...yet it is the weight of the head that always brings the magnificent falling body back to vertical position...and stasis.
stories longer than haiku
.........soon it will be time to pack again....and what will that bring?
doesn't the earth ever tire of turning? what a fantasticlly tragic comedey, this 'time'.
I have to laugh at myself because I learned at age 7 the world was not flat, and that 'horizons' are but lingustic fallout from the shock and awe of mortality...yet how dearly I still cling to the poetry of their idea.
1. once there was a man who had never before left his village or country. perhaps he was not very bright, or perhaps he had not seen many white women, but he mistook my freckles and moles for mosquito bites.
2. accordian school
3. drink whenever the screen scrolls "ANTHRAX."
Other things in my head:
westerns and lawlessness
magic words. the heart
my beautiful, immpenetrable brother
children of young years know that the hill is there so they may roll down it...yet it is the weight of the head that always brings the magnificent falling body back to vertical position...and stasis.
stories longer than haiku
.........soon it will be time to pack again....and what will that bring?
doesn't the earth ever tire of turning? what a fantasticlly tragic comedey, this 'time'.
I have to laugh at myself because I learned at age 7 the world was not flat, and that 'horizons' are but lingustic fallout from the shock and awe of mortality...yet how dearly I still cling to the poetry of their idea.
mercredi 19 mars 2008
'On Two Lovers', or "Love, as I'd like it to be.'
I have just noticed, sitting in the park, two trees tied together.
One larger and imposing, upright, inclined slightly towards the other, partially colonized by moss creeping up his trunk.
The other arching away--arms ovaled in skyward embrace providing canopy to the field of daffodils lying below in the hollow created by her impression.
They are connected by heads--were they tethered at lowlier places, say the heart, I think the weight of her loftier branches --left to follow the bent of the direction emmanating from woody core, would cause her to fold in on herself...would leverage an uprooting.
But this, this delicate binding of seperate minds creates a perfect balance alone--for an ideal moment i can not divine ends or beginnings where respective branches intermingle.
One larger and imposing, upright, inclined slightly towards the other, partially colonized by moss creeping up his trunk.
The other arching away--arms ovaled in skyward embrace providing canopy to the field of daffodils lying below in the hollow created by her impression.
They are connected by heads--were they tethered at lowlier places, say the heart, I think the weight of her loftier branches --left to follow the bent of the direction emmanating from woody core, would cause her to fold in on herself...would leverage an uprooting.
But this, this delicate binding of seperate minds creates a perfect balance alone--for an ideal moment i can not divine ends or beginnings where respective branches intermingle.
mercredi 27 février 2008
UPDATES
I'm moving to California to be an MA/PhD student at Berkeley in Performance Studies.
Goodbye Chicago, city of pleasure and pain.
My cat came home. Or rather, he was found three weeks ago trapped in a pipe by jugglers in a park who called the fire department, who subsequesntly spent three hours destroying public property to free him.
And lastly...I met a man. a policeman. yow.
Goodbye Chicago, city of pleasure and pain.
My cat came home. Or rather, he was found three weeks ago trapped in a pipe by jugglers in a park who called the fire department, who subsequesntly spent three hours destroying public property to free him.
And lastly...I met a man. a policeman. yow.
dimanche 27 janvier 2008
RULES
muffin top.
it's slang for the roll of fat between your hips and waist that gets leveraged out, up and OVER the waistband of your jeans when you won't admit you need to downgrade your body image to a LARGER pant size.
It's also how I define the mixture-of-self-disgust-and-'yuck' feeling that I get when I realize I've willfully committed myself to making a soulful gesture that has inevitably played out as a lewd farce of mediocrity. Basically, a 'muffin top this' or a 'muffin top that' means I've embarrassed myself once again, and 'shame on me' as I can generally smell a flop a mile a way, and end up following through with it anyway...perhaps out of a twisted need for desecration ....you know...to make the divine really "POP"....or maybe just so I can have misadventures to squawk over with girlfriends. My guess is as good as yours.
muffin toppin', in my case, usually occurs in the romantic sector. It's all very Bridget Jones. I end up kissing some so-and-so, to whom I am COMPLETELY unattracted, to the point where I'd choose to be demonstrating blow-jobs on a banana to my whacky virgin roommate or hiding in our walk-in closet when he drops in unexpectedly rather than see him again. For the record, that guy was a perfectly nice, super smart, funny, attractive college mathematics major...he just gave me the 'muffin top feeling.' I've also been stirred by the disturbing emotion in question when waking up for the first time next to a dude I didn't luuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuv. It's funny how when you heart someone big time, back zits are charming (especially if he lets you pop them), but how if you don't .....they just make you wish this stage of your life had a do-over. Muffin top also springs to mind when I think of the awful set-ups I've been on....the awk cab ride home at 3 am friends insisted you share, or the dude pals hooked you up with who was later revealed to be married with a kid. zing. muffin top. Less comical is the rejection flavor of muffin top when you've been overly honest with someone to whom you thought you had an intimate emotional connection....only to find the bond was 100% ONLY IN YOUR HEAD.
Currently, I'm ranting because I'm backed into a corner. I'm getting a lot of shit--from all angles--about being in the "PAYS D'AMOUR", and not finding love, a fling, a hottie with an accent, a French feather for my cap, BLAH BLAH BLAH. Also...I'm starting to feel I'm approaching that invisible line after which talking about an ex-boyfriend, let alone admitting I still love him will qualify me as pathetic and out-of touch. I gotta change my ways...because any day now...my emotional reality will qualify me as a freaky minus-one-cat lady with a dried up vag and a shriveled organ of reason. My back's against the wall, so I'm telling social expectations to FUCK OFF. Probably, I should relax. It's flattering really, everyone telling you to "get out there, you're a catch!" But truthfully, they don't understand: I can't be spontaneous, or make myself available because I'm a walking muffin top. A clown. True, comedy takes more talent than tragedy, but FRANKLY, I've had my fill of humiliation. You know what I want? Some mother fucking pride. I want to look put-together as opposed to totally.....here I would be tempted to make a hurricane katrina analogy, but won't, so as to avoid egregious insensitivity and plain wrongness. Down with sham-y love! No more 'A's for effort,' no more 'building character.' I'm a big girl now, and I want big girl toys.
When I was a kid, I lived my live by the 'don't do something you'll regret,' or 'do something you'll regret NOT doing it' mottos...they served me well. Along the line however, they were thrown out, judged impractical, untrendy even...making choices based on the probability of their confluence with the muffin top feeling is a consuming process, one which requires painstaking time and observation. I regret discarding this personal manifesto....especially in matters of the bedroom....that was stupid. Also, I regret not taking time with my heart. That was stupid-er.
So, after a detour, I'm back to the muffin top moral compass. Which is why I'm all cloistered. SO FUCK OFF. I'M IN THIS TO WIN BIG....AND I DON'T WANT ANYMORE FUCKING CONSOLATION PRIZES. AND YES....I'M TOTALLY HUNG UP ON YOU-KNOW-WHO AND WHO FUCKING CARES. FUCK FUCK FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKY PEER PRESSURERS, YOU ALL CAN GO FUCK YOUR FUCKING FUCK FACE JUDGEMENTS.
I feel better now.
it's slang for the roll of fat between your hips and waist that gets leveraged out, up and OVER the waistband of your jeans when you won't admit you need to downgrade your body image to a LARGER pant size.
It's also how I define the mixture-of-self-disgust-and-'yuck' feeling that I get when I realize I've willfully committed myself to making a soulful gesture that has inevitably played out as a lewd farce of mediocrity. Basically, a 'muffin top this' or a 'muffin top that' means I've embarrassed myself once again, and 'shame on me' as I can generally smell a flop a mile a way, and end up following through with it anyway...perhaps out of a twisted need for desecration ....you know...to make the divine really "POP"....or maybe just so I can have misadventures to squawk over with girlfriends. My guess is as good as yours.
muffin toppin', in my case, usually occurs in the romantic sector. It's all very Bridget Jones. I end up kissing some so-and-so, to whom I am COMPLETELY unattracted, to the point where I'd choose to be demonstrating blow-jobs on a banana to my whacky virgin roommate or hiding in our walk-in closet when he drops in unexpectedly rather than see him again. For the record, that guy was a perfectly nice, super smart, funny, attractive college mathematics major...he just gave me the 'muffin top feeling.' I've also been stirred by the disturbing emotion in question when waking up for the first time next to a dude I didn't luuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuv. It's funny how when you heart someone big time, back zits are charming (especially if he lets you pop them), but how if you don't .....they just make you wish this stage of your life had a do-over. Muffin top also springs to mind when I think of the awful set-ups I've been on....the awk cab ride home at 3 am friends insisted you share, or the dude pals hooked you up with who was later revealed to be married with a kid. zing. muffin top. Less comical is the rejection flavor of muffin top when you've been overly honest with someone to whom you thought you had an intimate emotional connection....only to find the bond was 100% ONLY IN YOUR HEAD.
Currently, I'm ranting because I'm backed into a corner. I'm getting a lot of shit--from all angles--about being in the "PAYS D'AMOUR", and not finding love, a fling, a hottie with an accent, a French feather for my cap, BLAH BLAH BLAH. Also...I'm starting to feel I'm approaching that invisible line after which talking about an ex-boyfriend, let alone admitting I still love him will qualify me as pathetic and out-of touch. I gotta change my ways...because any day now...my emotional reality will qualify me as a freaky minus-one-cat lady with a dried up vag and a shriveled organ of reason. My back's against the wall, so I'm telling social expectations to FUCK OFF. Probably, I should relax. It's flattering really, everyone telling you to "get out there, you're a catch!" But truthfully, they don't understand: I can't be spontaneous, or make myself available because I'm a walking muffin top. A clown. True, comedy takes more talent than tragedy, but FRANKLY, I've had my fill of humiliation. You know what I want? Some mother fucking pride. I want to look put-together as opposed to totally.....here I would be tempted to make a hurricane katrina analogy, but won't, so as to avoid egregious insensitivity and plain wrongness. Down with sham-y love! No more 'A's for effort,' no more 'building character.' I'm a big girl now, and I want big girl toys.
When I was a kid, I lived my live by the 'don't do something you'll regret,' or 'do something you'll regret NOT doing it' mottos...they served me well. Along the line however, they were thrown out, judged impractical, untrendy even...making choices based on the probability of their confluence with the muffin top feeling is a consuming process, one which requires painstaking time and observation. I regret discarding this personal manifesto....especially in matters of the bedroom....that was stupid. Also, I regret not taking time with my heart. That was stupid-er.
So, after a detour, I'm back to the muffin top moral compass. Which is why I'm all cloistered. SO FUCK OFF. I'M IN THIS TO WIN BIG....AND I DON'T WANT ANYMORE FUCKING CONSOLATION PRIZES. AND YES....I'M TOTALLY HUNG UP ON YOU-KNOW-WHO AND WHO FUCKING CARES. FUCK FUCK FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKY PEER PRESSURERS, YOU ALL CAN GO FUCK YOUR FUCKING FUCK FACE JUDGEMENTS.
I feel better now.
dimanche 20 janvier 2008
Hex
My cat ran away.
He slipped out under iron shutters and through metal bars and disappeared into Paris on Wednesday.
I made posters: CHAT PERDU, with his description on it, and some sentimental touches. I put them up all over the neighborhood, and in the shops. Most business owners are nice; 3 offered to hang my flyer but never did.
I H. A.T. E them.
I wish them small personal tragedies of a similiar nature.
I also hate the street cleaner who, each day, removes the overturned flower pot I've placed beneath my window so the cat can reach the ledge and return. FUCK YOU, you FUCKING STREET CLEANER. If my cat doesn't come back, I hold you responsible.
I've called animal control. I've notified every vet in the quartier. In the early morning and late at night when the small side street is quiet...I sneak into the private gardens that surround and call his name while I shake a bag of tuna and beef flavored treats. Today, I put my other cat in a CAT LEASH and brought him along....thinking maybe he could smell out Hex...or leave a pee scent for the lost pet to follow home. I only succeed in pissing off the good cat, and upping my reputation as a scary cat lady.
Every night, I put the remaining cat in the bathroom with his box and his treats and his nip, and sleep with the window open and the light on. This makes me feel guilty. I'm not getting much shut eye. I jerk awake each time I hear a scratch or a thump that could possibly be attributed to a feline.
So far I've had three dreams about him. In one, I'm waking from a dream to see him entagled at my feet with Marshmallow, the two twined into a fuzz-ball tucked between my shin and the wall--their favorite spot to rest and groom one another. Another night, I peered over the high garden wall of the house to see the cat slinking down the street toward me at just before dawn. Last night, a woman came to the door with a cat she believed to be Hex, and when I greeted her, I saw not my brown and white domestic shorthair, but a mini cat-leopard with spots and all. In this dream I remember thinking the woman was a STUPID BITCH for 1. getting my cat's markings wrong when the flyer boasted a color photo and 2. getting my hopes up.
I cried a lot about the cat at first, but don't much anymore because it would be shameful in spite of the fact that everyone keeps telling me it's 'jut a cat.' The children I care for have begun to forget, and my boss even told me that I needed to spend less time looking for my cat, and more time looking for a boyfriend.
I didn't have the heart to tell him that until now, I've had more luck with cats. Or that the stupid cat was a boyfriend replacement to begin with: I wanted to keep him because a CAT can be kept, plus they make your bed-for-1 feel a great deal less empty.
I keep hoping he'll come back.
Because the sad truth is I'm paralyzingly lonely,
Because the sad truth is I'm paralyzingly lonely,
And brokenhearted. Which was a condition, I admit now, his presence helped to bridge, and one which his absence rips asunder... in painfuly obvious ways:
I'm a lonely, unconfident, type A, plan B girl...on the chubby side, who's reached the god-forsaken point at which I put more faith in animals than people. The point at which I rely upon the goodness and steadfastness of ANIMALS for the courage to pounce on everything that's not complete in the world, or in myself.
I'm holding a vigil for this cat, even though I'm sure he's moved on to exciting allyways, or a family that doesn't stick a thermometer in his anus when he's sick (vet recommended).
He's never coming back but I'm holding vigil.
As for how much the holding hurts, I don't know if it's the pain or the embarassment that does the most dammage.
I'm holding vigik because,
"A cat is like a love story." This is what an old lady smelling of booze with matted easter-egg red hair said to me while looking over my shoulder as I fed my announcements into the photocopier at the printers.
Most other days I would have laughed. That day though, I don't remember anything except the life being knocked out of me by a freighttrain of thought, an epiphany really, on my emmotional midgitism.
A cat is like a love story. At this point I guess then ...someday in the near future...I'll have to get a new one.
The thing I wonder now is, does that make my life Tragedy, or Comedy?
mardi 18 décembre 2007
Backlog
Life has been long and narrow recently, like a midnight trip to the bathroom down the dark corridor outside my childhood bedroom. Or like the way I feel in New York city at midtown. Yegh.
I've been in the shit. Up to my knees in PhD applications and self doubt. Throw some anxiety in there comme un digestif. I probably should been seeing a shrink or gulping down pills for that, but really, who has time? When ever I start to get panicky I sort of just tell my subconscious its full of crap, and that it better knock off the shenanigans. OR ELSE.
Honestly, if I had a hunky man to rub my feet and other things at night, I probably would dispense with all fantasies of board certified whosies, chemical leg-up-ers, and the militant approach to my neurosis. So I like to do it when I'm stressed--I no longer feel guilty about this. A bit manly, yes, but I'm confident that one day, I will find a loving partner who approaches life's little obstacles with a raging boner, or who can at least is can pull the team together when I need to be indulged.
That said...the whole process of trying to prove myself to a group of strangers is almost complete, and I'm looking forward to the new year. To the freedom to take long weekend vacations to Belgium, Italy, Germany, and the Czech Republic. To museums, and parks, and historical landmarks. To cafes and VIN and the search for romance. Hopefully with someone tall. With light eyes, scruff, a sturdy build, and good hair. No one who smells French.
Wow. To think of it...its kind of amazing how much 2006 and 2007 sucked. Granted, 2007 was better than 2006, but only because instead of two really nasty things going down, I only had one big setback. I could be pessimistic and go the whole "bad things come in threes" route with regards to my prognostications for 08, but I think that would just be ungrateful of me. I freaking live in Europe. I'm livin the dream! The dream, btw, could only get better if it involved being in love, and ergo...some coitus....aaaaaaaannnnnnnnnddddddd acceptance to every PhD program to which I've applied, aaaannnnnnnnnddd....some more coitus. But I desist.
Before I hit the sack and grab less than enough sleep before facing a day of class and 8 hours with three children under the age of 9, I'd like to record some things about Paris that some day I'll want to remember:
1. I'm standing on Rue Notre Dame des Champs...a tiny one way street that plays hide and seek with the Jardins Luxembourg behind the periphery of the corner of Rue Vavin, the cobbled pedestrian way that connects road to park on the perpendicular. Its a winter day in Paris, which means it's cold, and the sky is threatening like an aging Femme Fatale who pours a drink only to find the bottle's empty. Perhaps this explains the lurking feeling one gets in Paris that something is always hanging over one's head, some business left undone, but on the rapidly unraveling fringes of the mind....as if one was standing in front of his wife and swearing all fidelity while his zipper was down. Its terrible. And funny like that. This is a day where I as well have the feeling I've been caught with my hand in the jam jar. What jar, prosecuted by whom, and the the gravity of the offense, I can't tell you. I only know I'm being deposed. From the French I've learned that there are really only two possible solutions to such a sentiment. Actually there are three, but tragicomic sex just depresses me, and unlike the French, I don't think depression is an elevated state of consciousness. Today then, I could turn to wine, or to treasure hunting. Treasure hunting is why all French women are stunning in the way of things that are old and sentimental and built by hand. Needlepoint. The tin turn crank sifter in my mother's kitchen drawer. French women have eyes that NOTICE things. I want that femininity, so today my nose is pressed against the glass of an elevator sized antique shop and I'm craving the reinforcement THAT antique Sapphire ring, shaped like an ellipse and edged with diamonds, laid out on blue velvet, tucked behind a gold cigarette box in an unlit display in a shadowed window of an anonymous building would bring if only someone who found me like I found it would slip it on my fourth finger.
"WHERE" I call to the lonely part of myself,
"WHERE ARE THEY?" The men I mean, the soul mates, the life partners, the best friends. The ones who will really want to give you their lives and who will not know whether you want a simple band or something really materialistic, definitely because you don't know yourself. The ones who are smart, and funny, and pluck the grey hairs out of your head on Sunday mornings, and drink with you before watching documentaries because they are too serious to take them in sober, and who know how to kiss you, and aren't too afraid to really do so, even though in all probability any person who'd ever dare to hope he or she could ever be enough for anyone else is deluded, if brave.
"Dead" he says.
I turn.
Old Man. Red Cap. Curved back. Cane.
Walking past. Up the hill.
"They're all dead."
2. In America we call it the funny bone. In France, its referred to as "le petit juif," because its small, and hurts you.
3. Here, pillows are square. This is so odd, and so perfect.
4. Before going to sleep, Samuel takes a python sized stuffed snake from his toy box, and inscribes it, in increasing concentric circles, within the borders of his pillow so that as he dreams, his head will rest well nested within the coils of a childhood whim.
5. I speak the language of an empire. This is strange.
6. For Thanksgiving, I went to the home of a friend of a friend. A woman. Romanian born. Late 50's perhaps early 60's. Eyes crowding her nose to get the view from the bridge. Art Historian. Married to Charly, 70's, American. She loves this holiday because it is a holiday of immigrants, of which she is one, a time to open her arms to the world and thank it for having her, for giving her a place, and to honor those who move, those who trespass, those who lance themselves into being. She has no children. Every year the meal features the students rotating through coursework in their University careers, and whichever friends happen to be passing through town. In between her two front teeth there is a salient gap. The interloping space has such a sense of humor, such an insolence and fecundity, that I want to take this woman in my arms and hold her tight for all the mothers in the world that she, by some odd oversight of fate, will never be.
This is the same woman who, when I was described the blood curdling moans of a cat in heat, said: "My dear, those are not the screams of the devil, but of a WOMAN."
I've been in the shit. Up to my knees in PhD applications and self doubt. Throw some anxiety in there comme un digestif. I probably should been seeing a shrink or gulping down pills for that, but really, who has time? When ever I start to get panicky I sort of just tell my subconscious its full of crap, and that it better knock off the shenanigans. OR ELSE.
Honestly, if I had a hunky man to rub my feet and other things at night, I probably would dispense with all fantasies of board certified whosies, chemical leg-up-ers, and the militant approach to my neurosis. So I like to do it when I'm stressed--I no longer feel guilty about this. A bit manly, yes, but I'm confident that one day, I will find a loving partner who approaches life's little obstacles with a raging boner, or who can at least is can pull the team together when I need to be indulged.
That said...the whole process of trying to prove myself to a group of strangers is almost complete, and I'm looking forward to the new year. To the freedom to take long weekend vacations to Belgium, Italy, Germany, and the Czech Republic. To museums, and parks, and historical landmarks. To cafes and VIN and the search for romance. Hopefully with someone tall. With light eyes, scruff, a sturdy build, and good hair. No one who smells French.
Wow. To think of it...its kind of amazing how much 2006 and 2007 sucked. Granted, 2007 was better than 2006, but only because instead of two really nasty things going down, I only had one big setback. I could be pessimistic and go the whole "bad things come in threes" route with regards to my prognostications for 08, but I think that would just be ungrateful of me. I freaking live in Europe. I'm livin the dream! The dream, btw, could only get better if it involved being in love, and ergo...some coitus....aaaaaaaannnnnnnnnddddddd acceptance to every PhD program to which I've applied, aaaannnnnnnnnddd....some more coitus. But I desist.
Before I hit the sack and grab less than enough sleep before facing a day of class and 8 hours with three children under the age of 9, I'd like to record some things about Paris that some day I'll want to remember:
1. I'm standing on Rue Notre Dame des Champs...a tiny one way street that plays hide and seek with the Jardins Luxembourg behind the periphery of the corner of Rue Vavin, the cobbled pedestrian way that connects road to park on the perpendicular. Its a winter day in Paris, which means it's cold, and the sky is threatening like an aging Femme Fatale who pours a drink only to find the bottle's empty. Perhaps this explains the lurking feeling one gets in Paris that something is always hanging over one's head, some business left undone, but on the rapidly unraveling fringes of the mind....as if one was standing in front of his wife and swearing all fidelity while his zipper was down. Its terrible. And funny like that. This is a day where I as well have the feeling I've been caught with my hand in the jam jar. What jar, prosecuted by whom, and the the gravity of the offense, I can't tell you. I only know I'm being deposed. From the French I've learned that there are really only two possible solutions to such a sentiment. Actually there are three, but tragicomic sex just depresses me, and unlike the French, I don't think depression is an elevated state of consciousness. Today then, I could turn to wine, or to treasure hunting. Treasure hunting is why all French women are stunning in the way of things that are old and sentimental and built by hand. Needlepoint. The tin turn crank sifter in my mother's kitchen drawer. French women have eyes that NOTICE things. I want that femininity, so today my nose is pressed against the glass of an elevator sized antique shop and I'm craving the reinforcement THAT antique Sapphire ring, shaped like an ellipse and edged with diamonds, laid out on blue velvet, tucked behind a gold cigarette box in an unlit display in a shadowed window of an anonymous building would bring if only someone who found me like I found it would slip it on my fourth finger.
"WHERE" I call to the lonely part of myself,
"WHERE ARE THEY?" The men I mean, the soul mates, the life partners, the best friends. The ones who will really want to give you their lives and who will not know whether you want a simple band or something really materialistic, definitely because you don't know yourself. The ones who are smart, and funny, and pluck the grey hairs out of your head on Sunday mornings, and drink with you before watching documentaries because they are too serious to take them in sober, and who know how to kiss you, and aren't too afraid to really do so, even though in all probability any person who'd ever dare to hope he or she could ever be enough for anyone else is deluded, if brave.
"Dead" he says.
I turn.
Old Man. Red Cap. Curved back. Cane.
Walking past. Up the hill.
"They're all dead."
2. In America we call it the funny bone. In France, its referred to as "le petit juif," because its small, and hurts you.
3. Here, pillows are square. This is so odd, and so perfect.
4. Before going to sleep, Samuel takes a python sized stuffed snake from his toy box, and inscribes it, in increasing concentric circles, within the borders of his pillow so that as he dreams, his head will rest well nested within the coils of a childhood whim.
5. I speak the language of an empire. This is strange.
6. For Thanksgiving, I went to the home of a friend of a friend. A woman. Romanian born. Late 50's perhaps early 60's. Eyes crowding her nose to get the view from the bridge. Art Historian. Married to Charly, 70's, American. She loves this holiday because it is a holiday of immigrants, of which she is one, a time to open her arms to the world and thank it for having her, for giving her a place, and to honor those who move, those who trespass, those who lance themselves into being. She has no children. Every year the meal features the students rotating through coursework in their University careers, and whichever friends happen to be passing through town. In between her two front teeth there is a salient gap. The interloping space has such a sense of humor, such an insolence and fecundity, that I want to take this woman in my arms and hold her tight for all the mothers in the world that she, by some odd oversight of fate, will never be.
This is the same woman who, when I was described the blood curdling moans of a cat in heat, said: "My dear, those are not the screams of the devil, but of a WOMAN."
samedi 8 décembre 2007
this once...
josh and i were at my grandparents cottage just before it was sold away, and we decided to go fishing on the lake at dusk. we had gone into town that morning and paid something absurd like $50 for 3 day licenses--we were catching dinner damn it--and so when the sun set we were prepared. we loaded the canoe with poles and bait and pushed off from the dock, careful to avoid the swimming rock submerged just below the water's surface and straight off the homemade pier. to be honest, i wasn't really convinced we would catch any great shakes. i had been fishing in that lake since childhood without accruing a single memory of my line going taught, of reeling in my prize to show off to all my cousins--to prove that in fact there was a reason I was the oldest grandchild....clearly because I was superior at all things, including fishing. josh however was optimism all the way. except it was optimism without a smile. it was serious optimism. he was a serious outdoors man. i have this one TERRIFIC picture where he's leaning over the side of the canoe scrutinizing the placid body of water for even a single bubble--for any trace of aquatic life. I don't remember seeing a one bubble. evening progressed and the sky began to ink into the lake's horizon. then suddenly there were bats. this freaked me out big time but excited josh who saw it as a sign of feeding time. if the bats were swooping to the water's surface for a buffet of larvae and insects, the fish would be rising to the same occasion. josh was right, he did catch something--by accident. after a bit of casting, he reeled in his line to realize he had a guppy who'd swallowed the hook. the little guy fit neatly in josh's palm, hiss gills working almost as frantically as josh was to release the hook. problem was, the hook was well on its way to the fishes gut. josh worked and worked the hook delicately, stopping every few seconds or so to submerge the baby bass to give him breathing time. this went on for a minute or so, until blood began to issue forth from the gills. i had been growing slowly distraught over the deteriorating condition of the baby fish, but blood was too much. i launched into sobs at the tragedy of a life plucked so haphazardly, and wrung my hands over the maliciousness of fate. and then there was josh, in a canoe on a man made lake with a hysterical woman, trying to save a fingerling who would probably just be eaten by the big guys anyway. eventually the finned creature was freed, and as Josh put him overboard, I put the flashlight on the water. together the two of us watched the bass as he exerted every once of strength left to descend slowly, slowly, out of the penetrating strength of the light, and into the black sludgy depths, probably to die of blood loss or severe wounds. i asked josh to drop me at the dock. i don't know what made me feel worse: the fish, or the pathetic downfall of our best sportsmen intentions.
this story came back to me tonight out of nowhere, and it made me truly happy at first--the absurdity of the situation. but now, after writing through it, i wish that Josh had caught something in Pennsylvania--that would have given him a nice memory in place of the one i hope he still has.
this story came back to me tonight out of nowhere, and it made me truly happy at first--the absurdity of the situation. but now, after writing through it, i wish that Josh had caught something in Pennsylvania--that would have given him a nice memory in place of the one i hope he still has.
countdown
this is the official countdown to something big
i woke up today with an omen in my heart
that's a feeling you only get once in a while in your life
its like the feeling of lying on the beach by Lake Michigan on one of those summer nights when the air is warm enough to permit night swimming and the sand is only illuminated by the glow of the city lights and drifting out across the water are the sounds of a foreign accordion like instrument emanating from a midnight festival of a Greek orthodox community
i freaking love america
and rock and roll
maybe this omen is just libido
but who gives a fuck
if it makes you feel really alive
i woke up today with an omen in my heart
that's a feeling you only get once in a while in your life
its like the feeling of lying on the beach by Lake Michigan on one of those summer nights when the air is warm enough to permit night swimming and the sand is only illuminated by the glow of the city lights and drifting out across the water are the sounds of a foreign accordion like instrument emanating from a midnight festival of a Greek orthodox community
i freaking love america
and rock and roll
maybe this omen is just libido
but who gives a fuck
if it makes you feel really alive
samedi 17 novembre 2007
Adele and the Evil Pajama Blood Monster Part II
it is de night-timeso in my bedroom is very very dark
this is de time da pajama blood monster is starting just to get awake
de monster is very scary
et like aussi beaucoup to hide
de monster know que thing who hides is more make me scare
...
before i say i like when la maison est quiet
...
mais...
...where is it de monster maintenant?
...now I no like no more dis quiet...
I want que mamman et papa font a BIG fete
so to make de monster scare
mais non non non!
da noise it will not make to scare de monser
de monster it is trop intelligent
de music just make easier for de monster to attaque
when no else they can hear!!!
SO!
I want que I have ear like a loup
I want I can hear where de monster is moving
MAIS
only i can hear de sound of mes poummons qui respirent!
taisez vous poummons! de monster will hear...
de monster have des ears hyper bon
it have a nose hyper bon aussi
after first time de monster appear
i wonder how it find me
et puis je me suis rendu compte que:
if i no take a bath de monster can smell
it can smell my gouter de panini chocolat
it can smell aussi mes cheveaux quand elles sont salles
for dis I take the bath so no more it can smell me at night
mais!
de monster has one thing not so good
is eyes sont terribles!
de monster it can no see anything
...presque...
this is why de monster live in de dark
it know it is weak in de eyes
but also that the enfants
also is not fort at night
night time is when nous sommes laisses seuls
then we ne font pas attention
car we revons of nice things
like de horses and and des pinceaux et Mary Poppins
j'ai peur que quand je reve, de monster va get me
et also
des enfants can not see in place where is dark
for these things night is best time for monster to attack
mamman sait que de monster hide in places where is dark
mais elle pense que ces lieus sont sous mon lit peut-etre
ou
dans les coins de ma chambre
so for dis she give me de light for de night-time
mamma she think that with ma petite lumiere I can make scare de monster
and ses yeux aveugles et rouges
and smell is bad mouth smell
and bad skin smell like basement smell
and hear is ailes qui flappe flappe flappe
and hear is ailes qui flappe flappe flappe
et ses tongue qui sslup sslup sslup
mais mamman not know de monster is more smart dan dis
de monster is very very very
trop intelligent
plus inelligent meme que
le cervau de the most smartest ever
de monster is smater meme qu'une personne
because..
...when de monster hide...
it not hide sous mon lit
ou dans les coins dark de ma chambre
..
.
de monstre cache DANS des trucs
comme la babysitteur
et je ne sais pas yet what autre...
...it attend jusqu'au moment when
i feel tired
mes yeaux get very chiente
they say
ADELE is time for pijama
then the monster
when it hear my eye say this
it climb
into
a
someone
else
body
and fly around the room
to find me
first de monster it sniff sniff sniff
with da nose
(MAIS JE ME CACHE BIEN GRACE A THE BATH!)
mais this make da monster more angry
it no can sniff me
so now de monster open is ears
AH!
they sound so big
like quand ouverent les voiles on le bateau de papa
et les voiles
i mean
les ears
they hear my poummons qui respirent!
now de monster is comming closer
and closer
what I do
what I do?
what I do?!!
my poummons just to breathe louder
et auusi maitenant
j'ai la coeur qui batte!!!
ALORS JE HOLD MY BREATH
...
....
.....
......
.......
........
.........
(de monster is still here
mais
he
no more can hear me
but now
because it is trop intelligent...
it open sa bouche
and out come is tongue...
i know car je sent l'odeur de sa bouche
qui smell very bad like when grown-up do poop)
(now I feel the monsetr tongue lick mon duvet
et le mur
he is trying to find me in de dark
sans ses ears
et sans son nez)
ma(GO AWAY BAD MONSTER)
(et now...i feel de monster is lick my toes)
(I am found! I try hold my breath more an more an more mais I no can)
de monster now lick my leg
now is fly over to ma tete
now de monster aborde to take back the covers with ses griffes
I CLOSE MES YEUX
I FEEL DE MONSTER LICK MY JOUE!
I OPEN MES YEUX TO SCREAM
mais c'est just marguerite a ma cote
elle look like this:
je suis si happy to see Marguerite!because sometime it is only her que je love
she warm
and she fuzzy
also her tongue on my face
i like it very much
meme si she lick her feet with it
and meme si it no so soft
mmmmmm MARGUERITE JE T'AIME
J'aime how she always go with me around de house
J'aime how she always go with me around de house
si I go upstairs
she go upstairs
si I go out to play
she go out to play
si I go to the toilette
she come there too!
J'aime how Marguerite she purr
she purr si I pick up her
she purr si I rub her tummy
she purr si I give her to eat des pates with Parmasean cheese!
Mais les best...
J'aime Marguerite how si je make un dessin, she watch mais no say "like this!"
J'aime que when je pleure car Samuel he is mean with me, I can hold her and feel more good
J'aime how Marguerite she sleep with me when we take nap on couch
and how she sleep at night with me in mon lit
J'aime how Marguerite, pour elle je suis unique au monde
This night I am very happy que Marguerite est with me
car she have des eyes very good
et des griffes aussi comme le pajama blood monster
que she can use to protect me
je sais bien qu'elle will fight pour moi
car je suis la tienne
and many time I have see how she fight for ce qui is hers
comme la maison
la maison est aussi la tienne
et when Sasha the chien vient me rendre visite
Marguerite she make sound like a snake and show her griffes
because she no want what is belong to her is take away
Je t'aime Marguerite
most of time you ne parle rien
mais tu sais aussi se battre
et for this,
I the most love you
I pick up Marguerite
I give her BUG HUG AND GROSES BISES
car I want never that she go
Her head next to ma tete
her corps tres serres contre mon corps
ce n'est pas facile a faire
because Marguerite she big
and her I love so much I want to hold the whole of her
mais je 'embrasse n'importe!
je l'embrasse comme je n'embrasse personne!
ET PUIS TOUT UN COUP:
"RRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOWWWWW!"
I let go Marguerite
She have scratch me
I bleed
I know no quoi faire
so I cry
no car it hurt
ou car le sang va ruinner mon duvet
mais car for elle I was unique au monde
et elle m'a fait mal
Now je sais
que the Pajama Blood Monster
hide de temps en temps
meme in des personnes qu'on aime le mieux
et qu'aimer someone n'est pas un moyen to leur protect
car le monstre
le monstre peux venir no matter what
et bien sur le monstre n'aime pas quand je le tien
So for this also now I pleure
car meme si je continue a aimer Marguerite
I no more I will l'embrasse
car after ce soir
j'ai peur que Le Pajama Blood Monster me fera mal encore
Je pleure car deja I miss to hug Marguerite
Deja I miss her to sleep on mon lit
Je pleure for these things all
Louder et more loud I cry
so Mamman et Papa me entendront
je pleure
je pleure
my pillow now is wet on both the side
je pleure
je pleure
je pleure
now ma gorge, it start hurt
mais je pleure
je pleure
je pleure
je pleure qu'ils viennent...
...
..
.
mais no one they come to m'embrasse
donc j'arrete de pleurer
car je suis seul
car Marguerite est partie
car Mamman et Papa ne me hear
car je suis trop triste to cry
je te hais, Pajama Blood Monster
dimanche 4 novembre 2007
The Adventures of Adele and the Evil Pajama Blood Monster, Chapter 1
Once there is a girl
Her's name is Me!
Adele!
Here is my house
Her's name is Me!
Adele!
Here is my house
There's me and MagueriteMarguerite no can't talk
So I like her
Mais when she me griffes
Then she talk
like this
with her griffes
"No hold me comme ca!"
ou
"Je suis mechante!"
I no like her when she talk and hurt me
I also like personne to see me with my booboo
Aussi here is Manu and Mommy
and Lea
and Samuel
I have aussi a school
mais I don't remember to draw it
i also have des amis
mais i don't remember to draw them
my house have a telephone
mais i don't know what it is the number
mais I don't remember to draw it
i also have des amis
mais i don't remember to draw them
my house have a telephone
mais i don't know what it is the number
My house is very quiet
because Marguerite no talk
Manu he just laugh
Sam "na- na-na-na-na"
Lea "coin coin coin coin"
and Mommy "puuuuuuuuuuuur"
comme Marguerite
mais elle ne me griffes jamais
Mais la babysitteur!
She to much is talking!
sometime is nice
sometime when she is excitee
she draw very good dessin
that i like
she say:
"Look Adele I draw a dragon for you"
It is very big
ou she say
"Adele I write you a postcard"
mais sometime
her dessin make me feel not good
because her paper is full
and my paper is have nothing on it
et comme ca la maison s'est disparu!
poof!
Et comme ca i get very nerveuse
et comme ca I sent petite
comme une princesse
et je deteste les princess
i want to make a good dessin
I want to garde ma quiet maison
sometime,
when the babysitteur is trop excitee
she talking too much
samedi soir i was very tired
because i am watching Garfield 2
et la maison was very quiet
and so I did not feel comme une princesse
i am like une loup WOOOOOOO! samedi soir
mais les loups ne parlent pas!
Les loups no use some words
BUT LA BABYSITTEUR
she know to speak wolf
mais she just say
"Bed time"
too much she saying this!
the she say
"Adele, si tu veux you can put on your own pijamas"
she go too fast!
"Adele I give you ONE MINUTE to put on les pijamas"
I say "I not do if you give one minute."
(If la babysitteur no will be a loup avec moi and she use words, then I GRIFFE the babysitteur!)
Mais this make her mad
when i see her face, i am a loup, but she is now changing
her fingers devienent des griffes
her hair now has horns
she breath fire
she has big wings and tail!
She say
"Adele, I am adult. You don't make the regles. I do.
I count to 30. If pijama not on I will put them on you."
"30, 29, 28,27,26,25,24,23,22,21,20...."
I now am no wolf
"10,9,8,7,6..."
I am UNE PRINCESS
ET CA C'EST DEGULASSE!
"3,2...2.5.....1!"
mais I get on mes pijamas
Quand la babysitteur head come into my room
I am surprise because she no has horns
or a big tail and wing
or des griffes
et she not breath fire
I am nice to la babysitteur
because I am scare
she was babysitteur
but also evil pijama blood monster
and i was Adele la loup
but also Adele la princesse
I no like these things they are tricky
Ces trucs, they are two thing
mais some thing is hidden
and can make a surprise
et ce suprise make me feel
like my paper have nothing on it
ca me make very nerveuse
moi j'aime bien la babysitteur
mais chaque day i get out of school
i must be careful to see
how excitee she is
and if today she is really Cetleen
or evil pijama blood monster
or both
Redirect
When one finds out, as one is always likely to do, that someone you loved has found someone new--not a someone to distract, not a fling, but a someone who you know must be truly wonderful if they were to be with the loved person--there is really nothing to do but try as calmly as possible to enumerate all of the wonders of the world one can possibly summon to mind in an attempt to stave off heartbreak.
LIST:
1. Carafe
2. "Ces Arbres Sont Dangereux." 'These trees are dangerous' signs nailed to some true beauties in Les Jardins Luxembourg
3. Piles of sawdust where the trees once stood the following day
4. Old woman stooped at 90 degrees walking her long haired dachshund
5. Brass menorahs at the marche des puces
6. The cache behind a grate along Avenue de L'Observatoire where a homeless person has husbanded away a pillow, a blanket, and a book.
7. The taxi driver obeying his prayers on the corner of Rue de la Sante and Blvd Arago...now I know where Mecca is
8. The string orchestra in the Chatelet Metra station
9. The delivery man whistling 'fields of gold' as dawn is breaking over the Pantheon on Rue Sufflot
10. A child's handmade, orange leather shoes
11. Adele's hair after a bath
12. The street musician's on Vavin--tuba, trumpet, and accordion
13. a black top hat with a red feather
14. the birds in the bush that you thought were leaves until the leaves suddenly flew away
15. the skyline of Chicago at night
16. I'm trying
17. I'm trying
18. I'm trying
19. I'm trying
20. I'm trying
21. cobblestones
22. I'm trying
23. I'm trying
24. I'm trying
25. I'm moving ahead
26. Ahead
27. I'm trying
28. I'm trying
29. The Tunisian man in the bike shop
30. warm autumn days
31. I'm trying
32. I'm trying
33. I'm trying
34. I'm trying
35. I'm trying
36. I'm trying
37. plans
I am trying to let this city fill me with beautiful things in the place where you used to be. It's not quite enough. You thought you weren't, but you could have been had you decided to. So far, in terms of empty vs. full, I feel about as one would on a diet of rice cakes. Perhaps this explains why I'm growing thinner. Sometimes, I really hate you.
LIST:
1. Carafe
2. "Ces Arbres Sont Dangereux." 'These trees are dangerous' signs nailed to some true beauties in Les Jardins Luxembourg
3. Piles of sawdust where the trees once stood the following day
4. Old woman stooped at 90 degrees walking her long haired dachshund
5. Brass menorahs at the marche des puces
6. The cache behind a grate along Avenue de L'Observatoire where a homeless person has husbanded away a pillow, a blanket, and a book.
7. The taxi driver obeying his prayers on the corner of Rue de la Sante and Blvd Arago...now I know where Mecca is
8. The string orchestra in the Chatelet Metra station
9. The delivery man whistling 'fields of gold' as dawn is breaking over the Pantheon on Rue Sufflot
10. A child's handmade, orange leather shoes
11. Adele's hair after a bath
12. The street musician's on Vavin--tuba, trumpet, and accordion
13. a black top hat with a red feather
14. the birds in the bush that you thought were leaves until the leaves suddenly flew away
15. the skyline of Chicago at night
16. I'm trying
17. I'm trying
18. I'm trying
19. I'm trying
20. I'm trying
21. cobblestones
22. I'm trying
23. I'm trying
24. I'm trying
25. I'm moving ahead
26. Ahead
27. I'm trying
28. I'm trying
29. The Tunisian man in the bike shop
30. warm autumn days
31. I'm trying
32. I'm trying
33. I'm trying
34. I'm trying
35. I'm trying
36. I'm trying
37. plans
I am trying to let this city fill me with beautiful things in the place where you used to be. It's not quite enough. You thought you weren't, but you could have been had you decided to. So far, in terms of empty vs. full, I feel about as one would on a diet of rice cakes. Perhaps this explains why I'm growing thinner. Sometimes, I really hate you.
mercredi 24 octobre 2007
LATE NIGHT CHOW NEEDED
1:24 am in Paris France
will be hitting the sack in any moment
i WILL skip brushing my teeth
because I'm tired
and sometimes defiance of 'the man' makes me feel like an adult
also I will sleep with my contacts in because it makes me feel baaaaaaaaad
and I like it
probably I feel baaaaaaaad
because when I was a teenager my mother kept me safe from sleepovers with friends who probably just wanted to get me wasted and fondle me, by saying that I couldn't spend the night because " You don't have your contact lens solution."
But this is a mere anecdote
I'm feeling like a mutant because I've been awake for the last three hours coloring,
and because I came to this country so I could be stuck with myself...and so I could prevent myself from falling in love with anyone...and now I AM stuck with myself and bored (because even if we're FABULOUS at all times...a lot of the time between doing fabulous things...we're boring as shit) and developing odd feelings for some man who lives on another continent I've kissed once and only known for a spattering of moths....I should have learned by 24 that my Plan A's always suck. I'm a Plan B kind of girl.......In every possible sense of the term........
I'm the girl who always has to pay the damned change fee when I suddenly realize Plan A is a mission abort. Rephrase: I'm the girl who has to ask her MOM to pay the damned change fee when I pull a spaz move...which is almost always. I should change my fucking name to Caitlin CHANGE FEE Marshall.
Back to mutant hood.
The reason I'm writing at all now is because when I feel like a mutant, it's great to go to an all night diner like the Chicago has--like Melrose or Nookies-- where it's fun to drink milkshakes, plan on not brushing your teeth when you get home, and watch other mutants congregating! In a diner...I can take charge of my emotional reality and morph from being a dejected weirdo, to a proud card-carrying one.
There are probably no all night diners in Paris as there are no diners here...and although the French invented ennui (so you'd think they'd have a proliferation of all night joints), I kind of get the feeling that in regards to both my feeling like a mutant, and the necessary task of working more than a 30 hour workweek that would be necessitated by any empathetic nod to mutant-hood....the french would simply reply: "Qui, je te comprends bien mon ami...mais de faire n'importe quoi au milieu de la nuit....ca c'est fortment moche."
Mark my words....the first thing I'm doing when I return to the states (barring any situation where there's a man,any man, waiting to have sex with me), is to stay up all night going through drive-throughs and carouse at 24 hour juke joints. If I were a dude, just the idea of such cockamamie-biggie fry-cherry pie shenanigans would be enough to give me a burger boner right now....
Fuck it. This need can't wait. Right off tomorrow morning I start a new mission called "find out how the French scratch their midnight-mutant itch." I'm feeling confident that such sentiments or self-alienation are universal, and that Parisians will have some PHENOMENAL, and probably hot solution to the problem....I'll keep y'all posted...
will be hitting the sack in any moment
i WILL skip brushing my teeth
because I'm tired
and sometimes defiance of 'the man' makes me feel like an adult
also I will sleep with my contacts in because it makes me feel baaaaaaaaad
and I like it
probably I feel baaaaaaaad
because when I was a teenager my mother kept me safe from sleepovers with friends who probably just wanted to get me wasted and fondle me, by saying that I couldn't spend the night because " You don't have your contact lens solution."
But this is a mere anecdote
I'm feeling like a mutant because I've been awake for the last three hours coloring,
and because I came to this country so I could be stuck with myself...and so I could prevent myself from falling in love with anyone...and now I AM stuck with myself and bored (because even if we're FABULOUS at all times...a lot of the time between doing fabulous things...we're boring as shit) and developing odd feelings for some man who lives on another continent I've kissed once and only known for a spattering of moths....I should have learned by 24 that my Plan A's always suck. I'm a Plan B kind of girl.......In every possible sense of the term........
I'm the girl who always has to pay the damned change fee when I suddenly realize Plan A is a mission abort. Rephrase: I'm the girl who has to ask her MOM to pay the damned change fee when I pull a spaz move...which is almost always. I should change my fucking name to Caitlin CHANGE FEE Marshall.
Back to mutant hood.
The reason I'm writing at all now is because when I feel like a mutant, it's great to go to an all night diner like the Chicago has--like Melrose or Nookies-- where it's fun to drink milkshakes, plan on not brushing your teeth when you get home, and watch other mutants congregating! In a diner...I can take charge of my emotional reality and morph from being a dejected weirdo, to a proud card-carrying one.
There are probably no all night diners in Paris as there are no diners here...and although the French invented ennui (so you'd think they'd have a proliferation of all night joints), I kind of get the feeling that in regards to both my feeling like a mutant, and the necessary task of working more than a 30 hour workweek that would be necessitated by any empathetic nod to mutant-hood....the french would simply reply: "Qui, je te comprends bien mon ami...mais de faire n'importe quoi au milieu de la nuit....ca c'est fortment moche."
Mark my words....the first thing I'm doing when I return to the states (barring any situation where there's a man,any man, waiting to have sex with me), is to stay up all night going through drive-throughs and carouse at 24 hour juke joints. If I were a dude, just the idea of such cockamamie-biggie fry-cherry pie shenanigans would be enough to give me a burger boner right now....
Fuck it. This need can't wait. Right off tomorrow morning I start a new mission called "find out how the French scratch their midnight-mutant itch." I'm feeling confident that such sentiments or self-alienation are universal, and that Parisians will have some PHENOMENAL, and probably hot solution to the problem....I'll keep y'all posted...
Surprise surprise
Some things you should know about France that will clearly delineate the mentality driving this country:
- Barbers do not exist in Paris. I learned this today from a highly respected authority and must say I'm bowled over. To explain, if you're a dude and you want a haircut, you've got to put up with a chick place. And if you've got a beard, you're fucked, cause the chick places won't trim it up, or shave it into any fun shapes for you. So tant pis for those of the orthodox persuasion, or who fancy the facial hair stylings of A.J. from the Backstreet Boys. I think this is a serious problem. Some boy/girl things should be separate, like bathrooms, and bathhouses, and not so much houses of worship in my opinion...but definitely hairdressing establishments. Also gyms...I freakin hate it when people are working out in an attempt to hook it up with other sweaty patrons. Gross. Lift your damned dumbbells and leave me the fuck alone. Ok so barbers... Barbers are a necessary intermediary in the development of the classic dad-son relationship. In my home town, generations of Hinghamite men are down with Pete the barber. Pete is the person responsible for giving me one of the footholds of emotional security I've had for the last 24 years: no matter what...my Dad's haircut will stay the same. Maybe there will be less hair to cut, but 'the Pete' will be for as long as there is anything fuzzy on my pop's noggin meriting a trim. Where else can Playboys and Maxims been displayed sans souci in Paris? The ball game watched at full blare? Where can you go to get a haircut where the damned hair cutter shuts the fuck up and simply cuts hair instead of gabbing away at you, or asking inane questions whose answer she is only marginally interested in?? How can man-club culture exist sans barbers? Simply, it can't. When I asked about gender separation with regards to hair styling today, my professor responded that in France, there are no barbers because the French aren't segregationist....and all I could think about was how if my brother could have been there, he would have said something totally politically incorrect (and also hilarious) like: "The French don't have barbers because they're wimpy, which explains why all the guys here are girlie-men."
- In Paris, if you want to buy stamps, you go to the post office. If you want to mail a letter, you go to the post office. Awesome....but if you want to BUY an envelope for said letter....you are shit out of luck. POST OFFICES DON'T SELL ENVELOPES IN FRANCE. WHAT IS THAT? Honestly, if you want an envelope to send a letter anywhere aside from abroad (post offices DO sell envelopes with pre-paid postage to foreign countries...that said...they also have one stamp whose only purpose is to put on plain envelopes being sent abroad...let me know if you sense some systematical redundancy here....) you have to go to a paper goods store. Wow. My teacher also let this one fly today to. I might add that it's not just Americans who find this practice odd...it totally baffles the natives as well.
- Lastly...if you need passport or green card photos taken in Paris...be prepared to either produce them out of thin air...or go on a wild goose chase until you find the ONE kodak store in the entire city that can offer you this service. Apparently, independent photo processing boutiques have been replaced by a chain electronics/book/dvd/movie store (think radio shack, apple store, and borders all in one). Yet when forming this monopoly, the executives at FNAC decided that no one really needed to have identity photos taken, so the service could be dispensed with.....Add to this dilemma the fact that mostly every Parisian you meet will INSIST that FNAC can develop passport pictures, while every employee at said establishment will vehemently deny the fact. I don't such mind the stubbornness itself as the fact the aforementioned trait makes it difficult for a stranger to offer more than one "helpful" solution. Not the most efficient nation, to be sure. But let it be known, that as far as I'm concerned, there is nothing more glorious than a society where procrastination and perseveration are not so much thorns in the side of "progress", but pathways toward the good life. Vive la France.
jeudi 18 octobre 2007
Symmetry
It makes sense
that ginger grows underground
that it is brown with eyes and many bulbous noses and thumbs and big toes,
but no fingers
that at any point in time it is uprooted,
displayed at a green grocer's,
where it is scratched and sniffed, palmed over,
snapped
this probably hurts
wrapped up in a small brown bag
the crispness of which foreshadows the zest the rhizome will bring to a meal or dressing
to be brought home
peeled by the tender mastery of a spoon and the opposable digit--trying in each half-moon journey to the knuckle of the index finger to re assimilate with his four peers who, thanks to the cruel hand of evolution, shun his exotic looks and foreign function.
much like the root itself, a thumb owes its very shape to what has come to be over an accumulated number of eons...whatever an eon may be: 10000 REM cycles, or generations of drosophilia melanogaster in your opinion--
then scraped
till its flesh separates
fibrous elements discarded
the marrow sampled by the union of finger tip and tongue
then swept into a dish of something larger
itself composed of the best parts--freely given, torn out of, ripped or cut away from-- of many many other different bodies, sources, bulbs, and buds
the only remaining trace of prior incarnations of the root
well voiced
by the mute testament to being
perceived by the tongue,
the lingus
the lingus bears the burden of testament
some might add that a ledger of a journey could be found moreover in the bowel
but I am no scientist
and I would add
that shit
carries the herb's narrative around once to the earth
which we all know is the end, but also once again the beginning
this on one hand obscures the sequence of events
what is the cause? the effect?
what the catalyst? the result?
yet notice that such circularity gives life an evenness, a well distributed weight--so that we can feel its presence--a perfection
of symmetry
I am pleased to be a composite of what has come before. I am tickled to know that discerning the traces of my past will be a nearly impossible task to undertake forensically; years from now anthropologists will fail to read lingering muscle fragments of my petrified heart so as to publish on how it was broken and mended and broken and mended again. I prefer the science of fiction to document that which I have consumed, that which I have known.
I like to trace the bridge of my nose
to know that it has been molded like my father's and his mother but with the delicacy of my own mother's
I like to feel the obtuse breadth of my hips--it is nice that some-part of me is slow
and the cheeky 'pop' of my rump
which come from my paternal grandmother and grandfather respectively
I won't chart for you the antecedents to my facility for tears or even my penchant to ENTRENCH in a person or thing
it would be trite to give simplified coordinates for such stuff, just for the sake of poetics
when it fact such a task is like trying to sort out where the seas begin and end
can a cartographer chart such lines?
This does not necessarily hold true for lovers
which is why perhaps so many people write on the subject
once an inamorato has been dislodged from your heart, there persists a vision of dual temporality--the ability to critique what you once were, and what remains
what remains being an acknowledgement of what part of the other lingers, and what part of the other has dissipated
like taking measurements on the half life of radioactive elements
trumping such moments of lucidity of course
is the comic inability to transcribe what else you might be around or apart from this nuclear enclave of your heart
yet no mind
the lingus bears the burden of testament
to the perfection of symmetry :
I was cooking a soup
preparing for nightly ritual of 'taking in'
when I started thinking about the two men I've really loved
One taught me how to be mean
I mean really vicious
which, he also taught me,
is necessary for when you must battle
life takes teeth and claws
and sometimes and with some people
"things must be destroyed before they can begin again"...
...Star Wars also taught me that...along with the entire western cannon of mythology...and Joseph fucking Campbell...
but one taught me first, and for myself
One taught me how to be vain about my linguistic and intellectual capabilities
which I appreciate
because after all
hubris
is what separates gods from men
From another I learned to make salad dressings
really good salad dressings
with lime and ginger and peanut butter
and how also to open an avocado
to LIKE avocado
and Indian food
and the outdoors
as well as the idea of living someplace without the ocean
in favor of mountains
and that I could want to becoming something other than what I came into the world as
this other also trained me to find Orion in the sky
and instructed that beech trees will always grow in stands...
from the other I learned to yield...
Sometimes
just knowing all these things
and knowing these men exist
makes me so happy I think space will swallow me whole
I imagine that as symmetry circumscribes itself
it approaches infinite density
as if complete happiness were a black hole
and death were simply the completion of the arc
so that--after I lifetime of cycling through love--
once truly content
no trace of life can escape
despite one's best efforts to the contrary
and as one comes closer and closer to the 360th degree of the arc
one must fight harder to evade happiness
and continue to live...
these thoughts
are probably why seeing old people alone
makes my heart crumple in my throat
because I sense that they are very happy about living
but also very tired (perhaps) from a lifetime of good things
perhaps so tired
that they no longer wag their tongues and map their stories
I fret
I fret
I cry
about who is working to transcribe these lives?
Who?
...I know
that like concentric ripples in a pool pf water
emanating from what appears at least to be an infinite source
symmetry is perpetual/
simultaneously ending and beginning
but nothing in between
which is why it has no narrative
and why I should not try to counterfeit it with inadequate words...
but I am still young
and I have not yet found man to teach me to surrender
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