IN THE EVENT OF AN EMERGENCY FOLLOW TO THE NEAREST EXIT

NOUVEAU

2010-01-15T00:55:00.001+01:00

please see

http://awantedlist.blogspot.com/

merci.

A FAVORITE LITTLE BIRD...

2009-10-25T03:42:00.001+01:00

My Pushkin

Marina Tsvetaeva

A little later, when I was six and in my first year of music in the Zograf-Plaksina School of Music in Merzlyakovsky Lane, there was a Christmas play, a public evening, as it used to be called in those days. They put on a scene from Rusalka, followed by Rogneda, and,

“Now we’ll flit over the garden

Where Tatyana encountered him…”[1]

A bench. On the bench, Tatyana. Then Onegin comes but does not sit down: she rises. Both are standing. And he alone speaks all the time, a long time, while she does not say a word. And here I realize that the red cat, Avgusta Ivanovna, and the dolls are not love, that this is love: when there is a bench, she is seated on the bench, then he comes, and speaks all the time, while she does not say a word. Mother, after the performance: “Well, Musya, what did you like best?”

“Tatyana and Onegin.”

“What? Not Rusalka, with the mill, and the prince, and the wood goblin? Not Rogneda?”

“Tatyana and Onegin.”

“But how could it be? You did not understand anything in it. What could you understand?”

I am silent.

Mother, triumphantly: “You see, you did not understand a single word, just as I thought. A girl of six! What could you like in it?”

“Tatyana and Onegin.”

“You are an absolute fool and more stubborn than ten asses!” Turning to the approaching director, A.L. Zograf:

“I know her: whatever I ask her, she will now repeat in the cab all the way home: ‘Tatyana and Onegin.’ I really regret bringing her. Not a single child in the world would have liked Tatyana and Onegin out of all the performance—everybody else would have preferred Rusalka, because it’s a fairy tale, it’s easy to understand. I really don’t know what to do with her!”

The director, with great kindness: “But, Musenka, why Tatyana and Onegin?”

My unspoken reply in full:

“Because it is love.”

“She must be seeing the seventh dream by now,” says Nadezhda Yakovlevna Bryusova,[2] our best and oldest student, as she approaches us—and here I find out for the first time that there is a “seventh dream” that measures the depth of somnolence and night.

“And what is this, Musya,” says the director, drawing out of my muff a mandarin orange he has placed there, replacing it inconspicuously (conspicuously!), and taking it out, again, and again, and again…

But I am already completely dumb, petrified, and none of his and Bryusova’s mandarin smiles and no terrifying glares from my mother can elicit a smile of gratitude from me. On our way home (quiet streets, a late hour, a horse-drawn sleigh) mother scolds me: “You put me to shame. You did not say thank you for the mandarin orange. A girl of six, you fell in love with Onegin, like a fool!”

Mother was wrong. I fell in love, not with Onegin, but with Onegin and Tatyana (the more perhaps with Tatyana), with both of them, with love. And later I never wrote anything without first falling in love with the two simultaneously (the more with her than with him): not with the two of them, but rather with their love. With love.

The bench on which they did not sit proved to be a predestination. Neither then nor later did I ever love when the two were kissing, but always when they were parting. I never loved when they were sitting down together, but always when they were taking leave of each other. My first love scene was a non-love scene: he did not love (I realized that), and that’s why he did not sit down; she loved, and that’s why she stood up. They had not been together for a single minute: they did nothing together; they did something quite opposite: he spoke, she was silent; he left, she stayed; so that if the curtain were raised, she would still be standing there, or perhaps sitting again, since she stood up only because he was standing, and afterward collapsed and would now be sitting like this forever.

This first love scene of mine predetermined all the rest, all the passion in me for the unfortunate, the unreciprocated, the impossible love. From that very minute I no longer wanted to be happy, but condemned myself to nonlove.

The whole point was that he did not love her, and she had made such a choice, to the exclusion of any other, only because she secretly knew that he would be unable to love her. (I am telling this now, but I knew it even then; then I knew, and now I have learned how to tell it.) People with this fatal gift of unfortunate love, all of which they shoulder alone, without ever sharing, have a real genius for choosing unsuitable objects.

There was also another thing (not one thing but many) that Eugene Onegin had predetermined in me. If all my life to this very day I have always been the first to write, the first to stretch out my hand and my arms, braving judgment, it was only because at the dawn of my days Tatyana in the book, reclining by candlelight, the loose braid falling across her breast, had done so before my eyes. And if later, whenever I was being abandoned (as I always was), I never stretched out my arms to stop and never even so much as turned my head, it was only because then, in the garden, Tatyana stayed as motionless as a statue.

A lesson in courage. A lesson in pride. A lesson in faithfulness. A lesson in destiny. A lesson in loneliness.

What other nation has such an amorous heroine: brave yet dignified, enamored yet inexorable, clear-sighted yet loving?

There was not a shadow of vindictiveness in Tatyana’s rebuff. This is why her vindication is complete; this is why Onegin stands “as if struck by thunder.”

She had all the trumps in her hand so as to take vengeance, to drive him mad; all the trumps to humiliate him, trample him under foot, abase him to the parquet of that reception room. She did away with all that in a single slip of the tongue: “I love you (why dissimulate?).”

Why dissimulate? Surely, to be triumphant! But why be triumphant? To this question Tatyana can truly find no answer, at least no intelligible answer; and again she remains standing in the enchanted circle of the reception room, as once she stood in the enchanted circle of the garden—in the enchanted circle of her amorous loneliness: not needed then; coveted now; loving and unable to be loved, both then and now.

She had all the trumps, but she did not play them.

Yes, girls, yes! Be the first to declare love, then listen to rebuffs, then marry a distinguished wounded veteran, and then listen to his declaration of love yet concede nothing—and you will be a thousand times happier than that other heroine of ours, the one whose fulfilled desires left her no other choice but to lay down on the railroad track.[3]

My choice between the fullness of desire and the fulfillment of desires, between the fullness of suffering and the emptiness of happiness, was made the day I was born and even before then.

Because, before me, my mother had been influenced by Tatyana. When my grandfather, A. D. Mein, made her choose between himself and her beloved, she had chosen her father and not her beloved, and then she married in an even better fashion than Tatyana did, because “for poor Tanya all lots were equal” whereas my mother drew the heaviest lot: a widower[4] twice her age, with two children, and still in love with the departed. She married to face someone else’s children and the grief for someone else, while still loving, still continuing to love that other one, whom she never sought to meet later and whom, having met him for the first time and by chance at her husband’s lecture, she answered, when asked how she was and whether she was happy: “My daughter is one year old; she is very big and clever; I am completely happy…” (God, how she must have hated me—the big and clever one—at that moment because I was not his daughter.)

Thus, Tatyana had influenced not only my life but the very fact of my existence; had there been no Pushkin’s Tatyana, I would not have come into being.

For this, and this alone, is the way women read poets.

It is significant, however, that mother did not name me Tatyana: she must have taken pity on that girl, for all that.

As far as I am concerned, the entire Eugene Onegin still consists today, as it did in my infancy, of three scenes: that candle, that bench, that parquet. Some of my contemporaries perceive in Eugene Onegin a brilliant joke, almost a satire. Perhaps they are right; perhaps, had I not read it before I was seven—but I read it at an age when there are neither jokes nor satires: there are dark gardens (as we had in Tarusa), there are crumpled bedclothes (as we had in our bedroom), and there is love (as I have in the hollow of my breast).

[1] The quotations from Eugene Onegin are taken from Vladimir Nabokov’s translation in the Bollinger Series LXXII. (New York: Pantheon Books, 1964).

[2] Sister of Valery Bryusov.

[3] Anna Karenina.

[4] Marina Tsvetaeva’s father, Ivan Vladimirovitch Tsvetaev (1846-1913), philologist and art historian, professor at the University of Moscow, director of the Rumyantsev Museum and founder of the Alexander III Museum of fine arts in Moscow, now the Pushkin Museum of Fine Arts.

STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND

2009-10-06T01:00:00.002+02:00

Sorry to have the long hiatus from the exilicism. August in France is wonderful; I travelled a good bit and also enjoyed an empty Paris during the compulsory holidays. I will update with a few selections, promise.

For now, I am back in Memphis while I file for my carte de séjour, a 2-3 month process. It must be filed for in the US and in person at the consulate in Atlanta, as I am a resident of Tennessee. (Much to my chagrin.) The proverbial "THEY" say that one way to test if someone is really ready for permanent living in France is if they can deal with the red-tape without donning a suicide helmet. (I also promise to make a post about suicide helmets. Don't read it if you don't get dark humor.) I am very frustrated, but I think it has more to do with espresso withdrawals than bureaucracy.

One of the first things I noticed upon arrival in America was the TALKING. Everywhere, there were people TALKING and I could UNDERSTAND EVERYTHING! My first example is two women in their mid twenties, in line behind me in customs:

WOMAN 1: where did you get those jeans??? SOOOO cute!!!

WOMAN 2: TARGET!!!!! Can you believe it? And feel them, they are so SOFT!

WOMAN 1: Oh my GOD- they ARE! And, they look just like "Sevens!"

WOMAN 2: I KNOW. I just love Target. I mean everything is so CUTE, and I can't afford $150 for a pair of jeans, so yes, Target is the place for me.

WOMAN 1: Who can these days? And not just the economy, but we have to think of Africa and all.

Now, I could make lots of probably more useful and less cynical observations about this particular conversation, including the fact that I have been just as guilty of such speeches. But it was really strange to me to be overhearing such "banter." And I do not actually believe that the French (in my particular case) or whichever peoples one has returned from the midst of, to be any less insipid. But I did forget all about chit-chat. And I must admit that my antisocial tendencies have been extraordinarily pleased to be oblivious of the fact of chit-chat. In my time there, I have learned to understand French quite well, but I have to pay attention. If I don't pay attention, all the talking happening around me is just noise. It could easily be interchanged with sirens or traffic or church bells. I am not forced to be at the auditory whims of whomever happens to be standing within ten feet of me, and I have come to discover how much I really enjoy that. In Paris, I can always be in my own reverie, whenever I feel like checking out into imaginationland. (Yet another worthwhile post topic, I assume.)

Right after I went through customs I made a beeline for the doors to have the requisite smoke. My body had been deprived of nicotine for about 10 hours- 8 1/2 for the flight time and the rest consumed by lines- and I came outside near where one can valet their car. The valet boys were all standing around doing was I was about to do. I had to smoke 3 or 4 cigarettes in a row to make up for that time, so I was standing there nearly 20 minutes. It might be funny, but I won't relate that conversation as it would mainly consist of all the symbols on the number pad of the keyboard and dashes and references to ladies' body parts. Needless to say, I was no more encouraged about the state of affairs.

When I did make it back to Memphis, it was bittersweet. Bitter because nothing is the same, and sweet because nothing is the same. Per this posting's title, I intend to treat my time here as a "Fair Witness," something that with practice, could be a generally useful skill. For now, I'll work on finding a little job, a comfortable couch to sleep on, and keep at my French, in absentia.

BASTILLE DAY

2009-07-28T09:29:00.006+02:00

My Bastille Day consisted of watching the military parade on TV while having tea. Pity, yes, but the fear of large crowds haunted me. It was perfect though because as my main interest was in the calvary, we knew the appropriate time to run downstairs and go around the block to where the calvary men were staging. So, I got to see them and all their beautiful horses in all their glory. At first, when we approached, the men were standing holding their mounts; then, the call to mount was sounded and everyone got back on, was ordered to unsheathe their swords and make the formation. The horses stood calm enough, but as soon as the Captain started to move his mount forward, there was a great scurrying of hooves on the cobbles, much rearing and clattering as the horses tried to gain their footing on the street. They assembled, and rode off to end the parade and escort the President to his garden party. (The calvary opens and closes the parade.) It was rather impressive.

We went back home, watched the final moments of the parade on the TV, and went to walk the dog and have a coffee. Coffee turned into lunch, and as we were near the Invalides, there were a lot of soldiers from various regiments milling about. It was interesting because Bruno knows a lot about military history, and so he was explaining to me the different uniforms, their uses and significances: how it came to be that some wore long tails of horsehair from their helmets (to protect the back from being slashed by an enemy sword), the evolution of having three buttons at the cuff of the sleeve (i forget that one), and of course the colorful manners in which a uniform signifies rank. After dinner, we went and watched the fireworks they shot from the Eiffel Tower. It was very beautiful.

MORE FROM DAN AND ERIN...

2009-07-17T17:26:00.002+02:00

Here are some photos from the fancy camera!

DAN AND ERIN IN PARIS

2009-07-08T10:43:00.005+02:00

I did not take a lot of photos, but here are a couple from my phone. I left the photography to Dan's fancy camera and his less-developed Lareau shakes. Here, Dan gets a little revenge of Kate from the last time they were in Paris and she refused him the nutella crepe. And Noé has a cotton candy the size of his torso! (This caused about an hour and a half of manic behaviour, followed by nearly instantaneous sleepiness at the dinner table- so much so that Marc and I were forced to take turns carrying him home...) After picking Dan and Erin up from the train station, we dropped their luggage by their hotel and proceeded to the Eiffel Tower. I had planned that we walk the Seine down to Notre Dame, to see everything that lies between, but it began to rain, and so we all huddled into a cab. The kids were terribly behaved, so when we arrived at Notre Dame to meet Marc and Iris, I was very much relieved for a little back-up. Marc did a great job of taking the reins from there, showing a few secret things around the cathedral, and finding a great place for dinner. I was pretty exhausted, I must say, but it was so nice to be with family that I wasn't bothered. I was sad that Dan and Erin didn't have more time, as the next day I began a two-week vacation, so it would have been excellent for showing Paris, but I hope that they had enough of a taste to want to help organize a Lareau family trip for next summer. Dan, please send the pictures from your camera! I'll post them here, and hopefully more people other than Kate can be jealous enough to take a flight...

BORDEAUX

2009-06-25T18:55:00.006+02:00

Last weekend I went to Bordeaux. The south of France is very nice, as it seems southern regions typically are. I arrived late from Paris, walked a bit, and retired. In the morning, I began my day:

breakfast, writing...
city centre
beautiful fountain, homage to the Roman heritage of Bordeaux

the Garonne River, wide and reminiscent of the ol' Mississippi...

near the square where I lunched and ended up with terrible sunburn
one of the old gates of the city
the opera

On Sunday, I went to the country house of a friend. We had a wonderful lunch and generally relaxed. I picked these little berries, which are tart and delicious. I forget how to spell their name...

a typical French country house
12th century church in the the village of the gite
last train back to Paris...

I very much enjoyed Bordeaux, and a rest from Paris. Besides the wine, it is a fun city, with lots of history and culture. Highly recommended!

LUCIE'S 13th BIRTHDAY

2009-06-16T11:27:00.004+02:00

Lucie turned 13 last week, and on Saturday, we celebrated with a lunch. Early in the morning, Bruno and I went to the neighborhood organic market. It was a really beautiful day out. We walked through the park next to the Seine with the dog, enjoying the early sun, and all the wonderful things at the market. Sorry there are no photos of that, but I don't think the vendors really like it when you take pictures. I picked out a hoard of flowers to make Lucie a bouquet, which turned into two bouquets, because my eyes were a bit bigger than my vases. Then we clamored everything home, and the children were awake, and fighting, and we cooked, and everyone had a generally marvelous time. Somehow, I missed getting a photo of the birthday girl, but anyways, you get a look at a traditional French lunch. And thanks to my friend Eralda and her blog, The Split Pea, for the inspiration of close-up food photography. I need a better camera... Enjoy! ... I sure did...

THE SOCIETY FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF CULTURAL ECONOMY

2009-06-10T18:22:00.003+02:00

I think that my little postmodernism project will now proceed from this title. There are vacancies for groupies if anyone is interested. Right now I am reading Jean Baudrillard's Simulacra and Simulation. In he says,

"The great event of this period, the great trauma, is this decline of strong referentials, these death pangs of the real and of the rational that open onto an age of simulation... It is into this void that the phantasms of a past history recede... to resurrect the period when at least there was history, at least there was violence (albeit fascist), when at least life and death were at stake... Therein objects shine in a sort of hyperresemblance that makes it so that fundamentally they no longer resemble anything, except the empty figure of resemblance, the empty form of representation. It is a question of life and death: these objects are no longer living or deadly."

In asking, "how far is too far?" we are limited by what he is talking about here, and it gets to what I think is one of the big problems with postmodernism, that because we are nearly refusing to define anything, how can we even begin to address what is what... And if we don't know what is what, or don't have the tools to say so, how can we say how far is too far, what "too far" is, and, arguably, whether or not we should care if this "line" is breeched? But it does seem to me that there is a leak in the hull, and if someone doesn't find it, eventually, the direction that we are going is certainly down. We need these "deadly" objects in order that we be able to say, "Don't go there! That shit will kill you!"

It seems to me that as the present economy collapses, we should be aware that something in that system is broken, and focus on what it is that we want to rebuild from the wreckage. Rather than allowing the momentum of technology and capitalism say where culture goes, culture needs to use the present state of the world as an opportunity to make a radical shift in the direction of civilization. I think we (specifically my generation, who now, more than ever, is enrolling in art school, thinking that there is another way of life than to study business, taking an interest in politics... although I don't think we are aware of the power we have, that it will be us running the planet, generating the money, in just a decade or so) could potentially transgress this old way. But we must be able to define "way." One idea (yes, mine, you thieves) is that it is culture's momentum that should decide where the curious energies of science, technology, and economics should be directed, and not the other way around. If those aspects of civilization were brought under culture's roof, housed in its ethics of humanism, then what kind of civilization would we be? I think that potentially this could decrease the discrepancy of Eastern and Western, and add a lot to what it now means to be a consciousness. Richer, Higher, in my opinion.

I guess this is pretty idealistic coming from my little mouth, but I'm trying to adapt Chesterton's idea of pessimism/optimism into my workings, so bear with me...

LOVE AND SQUALOR

2009-06-03T17:34:00.004+02:00

If this doesn't bring a smile to your face, well.... (I guess we already knew I'm not that funny...)

Napoleon, 1813

Today, Noé and I went to the Musee de l'Armée, or, the Invalides. The exhibit featuring Napoleon I-III had re-opened, and as he had no school today, it seemed a good way to spend the afternoon. It is always surprising to me how many details of family trees, battles, and ranks and measures a ten year old boy can have in his little brain. Relatively uninterested in the survival powers of swords and guns and armor, my little charge guided me through the exhibit, dutifully explaining the dates and purposes and import of everything that we viewed. I must say, it was the best tour I have ever taken.

I came across a painting there of a young commander. I think I fell in love. Something about the painting, from an unknown artist, really captivated me. I don't know if it is because I saw in his face one of Vermeer's women, or if it was the slightest sneer of his lip, that, combined with the creativity in his eyes I saw some simulacra of a young King David, but it was very moving, hiding in its corner. I think he died, early, following the figure depicted above...

TIGHTENING THE CIRCLE

2009-05-27T10:58:00.002+02:00

Yes, folks, I have indeed joined forces with some of the "literati" here, and we are coming up with some ways to take our machinations public. It's nothing new, really- or at least I do know it's been done before. So all you critics of my pretention, just stop reading now, and check back next week for some easy-on-the stomach travel logging.

The purpose of this little group is tackle postmodernism (which those of you who know me are probably too familiar with my late-night whiskey-fueled monologues ranting and reeming its flaws) in a democratic way. A little *ah-hem* maturity and the rigor bestowed upon me by my philosophy studies demand that I take it far beyond my tendency to preside over barroom discussions, and open the floor for the supporters as well as the denouncers. One question I keep asking myself, especially as concerns literature, is, "How far is too far?" While the Shock Wave that seems to be quite prominent in literature these days doesn't exactly offend me, (I am, after all, just as desensitized as the rest of my generation), it does make me curious about the ultimate purpose and effectiveness of all that this traumatism suggests. I know many of my readers are much more qualified and competent at contributing to this, both formally and informally- so please be thinking on it. As I feel that I am better qualified to act as mediator of sorts, I welcome commentary here, but also be aware that a publication will hopefully ensue in the fall, in which I will be looking for submissions. After that, the goal is to host round-table symposium-esq events biannually, the first we are thinking will take place in London in December. Basically, we want to engage writers, philosophers, scholars, etc. in a conceptual version of TED.

While this is a very loose sketch of what's taking place here in Paris, be sure a concrete structure is on the horizon, so be ready for intervals from pictures of sailboats and pretty buildings...

DIEPPE

2009-05-19T18:49:00.004+02:00

Dieppe is a tiny little town on the Normandy coast. There is really not much to report, but that was kinda the point of going there. Hiatus from Paris, and some sea air. I did eat a delicious moule, and visited a really weird bar. But mostly, it was just quiet...

ART

2009-05-11T10:47:00.006+02:00

Although I am inhabiting a city with some of the greatest collections of artwork in the world, I have not seen even a tenth of it. This is partly due, yes, to the overwhelming amount of it here (the sheer proportions of which one would have to devote an entire lifetime to absorbing), but also due to my own laziness. Today for example, would be a great day to spend in a museum as it is quite grey and rainy, but instead I am doing laundry and blogging. This morning I did read Stefan Zweig's novella "Chess," which was interesting and cataclysmic despite only being 75 pages. Anyway, my lack of museum-perusing began at first by not wishing to try to consume Paris' sights, but allowing them to seep into me, in the efforts of being of the spirit of a mug of tea rather than a culture-vulture. Now that I have been here about three months, and my french is beginning to become passable, I think it may be time to concentrate on the artworld a bit more. I did go and see an exhibition of William Blake, and was pretty amazed. Most of the pieces were actually quite small in dimensions, but nonetheless his child-like representations of rather dark material were quite striking. But my favorite part of the exhibit was one of Francis Bacon's paintings of Blake's self-made "Deathmask." He did a few versions of this, and I post here the one I saw, although the quality of the color does the painting no justice. It was hanging on a wall at the end of the exhibit proper, next to a flat-screen which had about 45 seconds of Jarmusch's "Dead Man" in which Nobody encounters William Blake and asks, "How can it be?" Over and over on repeat, this little clip sort-of got Bacon's painting stuck in my head, so I share it here.

On Saturday, a fellow Memphian came to Paris, as he had bored of London and the business that had taken him there. I took him to Le marche aux puces de Saint-Ouen, where we had a nice lunch with my boss and son. We then went to Montparnasse looking for Oscar Wilde's favorite bar, which my friend had visited the last time he was in Paris 15 years ago. We were unsuccessful, but enjoyed some American beverages nonetheless. After that, we had a break for naps and rejoined another in the evening. We took a trip up the Eiffel Tower at night, which was pretty nice with all the lights and the full moon. I realized in this day with a comrade a few things about my internal self, most notably that, well, I've changed a lot. Imperceptible to the self which has demanded a lot in terms of "improvement" (see the post CHRONIC OBSERVER), ideas, no, the structure of thought has made a movement. Most likely, this is entirely lateral, but it was interesting enough to witness it, and to note that it takes a comparative devise (such as a person from "home") to be able to perceive the movement. I'm not depressed enough this morning to go into the details here on the blog, but believe that I was stricken and that it IS recounted in vol. III of the cumbersome journal. Here are a few photos from the excursion.

MAY DAY

2009-05-04T09:50:00.004+02:00

The first of May is a holiday in France. Here's the history: "On May 1st, 1561, King Charles IX of France received a lily of the valley as a lucky charm. He decided to offer a lily of the valley each year to the ladies of the court. At the beginning of the 20th century, it became custom on the 1st of May, to give a sprig of lily of the valley, a symbol of springtime. The government permits individuals and workers' organisations to sell them free of taxation. It is also traditional for the lady receiving the spray of lily of valley to give a kiss in return. Now, people may present loved ones with bunches of lily of the valley or dog rose flowers." (Wikipedia) It is quite a charming holiday, I think. Which may have to do with the fact that the French take lots of holidays, and that is always charming, but, still. So I received two sets of Lillies- Bruno brought them for all of the girls in his household, and another came from a friend. See above.

In other news, I am eagerly anticipating Jim Jarmusch's new film, "The Limits of Control." Jarmusch is known for films of the journeyman, and though they are always a bit abstract, I am interested in comparing his latest endeavor with my own experiences. See NYT review here: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/26/movies/26lim.html?_r=1&scp=3&sq=jarmusch&st=cse.

Another theme being tested and tried (and researched in the sociological method (sic)) is, "What remains after Love?" I am working on putting this into a narrative, and so comments are welcome. Although it would be easy to focus here on all that is dour in the world, I really would like the piece to have a tone of reconciliation, in the hopes that by the end of the work maybe a little bit of lost innocence can be regained. Maybe my interest here is a bit of an atonement for those casualties of myself, but beyond that I think it is a subject everyone deals with at one time or another, and life in France seems to be sharpening certain foci. Many different accounts of this have been given over the course of time, but I find it especially interesting amidst this postmodern isolation. So please, if you have thoughts, post them!

CHRONIC OBSERVER

2009-04-23T15:59:00.004+02:00

How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world.

HAMLET

An intermission from the daily doings/travel log: a jaunt into the dark, recesses, internal musings.

It can be a time to square oneself with the world, with oneself, even-- taking leave of the familiar and going off into the unknown. One might even see it as an opportunity to "begin again," cast off some of the things in oneself that are a little more nebulous, a little destructive, slightly broken. One has no past, the "other" has no experience of the self, it is a clean slate, or as close to that ideal as one is likely to get in life. But the trouble is, having mapped out all the realms of the earth and even some of the heavens, that energy of exploration, in our time, has no place new to turn; thus, it comports itself, returns to the old lands, and engages in a re-discovery of the various mothers of civilization.

Returning there, the observer finds again, and with more angst and stronger, these traits within himself which he wished to slough off. For one set of scales is exchanged a shinier lot; molting takes time and concentration, but the new coverings stay soft a pathetically small amount of hours or days. He discovers these "flaws" to be less trends than staples; in fact, perhaps, he finds that they are commodities, and out of the new world, into the old, they are the various things which will enable his survival. Now there is a circle present, and his hunger for exploration is dulled by the realization that he is, in fact, a rather pitiful, despise-able excuse for a man, and that the time or context really is of no importance. This idea is even more painful because he is sure that he knew this before embarking. So, the familiar gains momentum because he is drawn to nostalgia, and he begins to see the new world with old eyes: it is still ugly, yes; it still lacks a largeness he yearns for, he is still too big for its shoes. It begins to occur to him that there is no place he is home, but how to find the energy to repair that? It appears as if that endeavor, as the entire zig-zag of his life, will prove to be yet another cyclical structure, and one that he can predict without actually having to go out and do it. The people (mostly strangers) around him only reinforce these ideas: he can say much, and with a high percentage of accuracy, about their particular woes and triumphs, he wonders at how any of them actually live without his peculiar torpor, how they get through the day to day without small amounts of cyanide or large quantities of malt beverages. He disdains them, and yet-- they seem to have some secret he is missing. He makes various well-intentioned acts such as swearing off women, renting a house in the country for a month, quitting his good salaried job, and ignoring the bank credit in favor of discovering this secret of the living.

Still, he finds himself primarily to be "a creature driven and derided by vanity" and slowly abandons value-based decisions for a life in accord with his cold essence-- something that only increases his guilt for not living up to the character he always fancied himself to become.

Classic existential crisis, yes, but then we humans have come to believe so solidly in our own individuality that it seems, each time, again and again and again, to be new, original, and so it has power. No other is dealing with such weight, although at any given moment there are a plethora of examples of it to be found throughout the art around us. It still doesn't fail to move us to grand depths of depression and hedonism. So, why? What is so delicious and so obscure, this remote idea of a reconciliation?

THE RITES OF SPRING

2009-04-14T15:26:00.002+02:00

Iris as Marie Antoinette...
Lucie as Her Ladyship
Two Maries
Bruno sporting curls
Sir Noe

And, the Spring:
At a cafe

Ecole Active Bilingual, Noe's school.
Parc Monceau
Le Grand Palais, as seen from our terrace.

Spring in Paris is really beautiful. Well, spring is just a beautiful season, but in Paris, there does seem to be something magical about it. Perhaps it is just that in a big city, through the winter, one tends to forget about Nature, being confined to all the stone and steel. Perhaps it is just the grace of new life bursting about everywhere that tends to inspire new energies each day. Or perhaps Paris' spring really is something out of the ordinary, with its cafe terraces and Seine bridges. Any way you go about it, it's something I recommend...

So here are a few photos commemorating the spring in Paris, along with some random ones of a Friday night at home. It seems that wig-wearing is a Rite of Spring!

And, congratulations to my brother and Kate on the birth of Madeline Jane. She is very beautiful, and yet another gift of this glorious season. I miss you guys and can't wait to meet her!

FORMALITIES/BROKEN

2009-03-30T12:00:00.002+02:00

["young man" -diane arbus]

The Broken in Paris is a lovestory: the making of monuments, the tiny wool coats made for little girls, the Algerian barkeeps. Silence is hard to find or bestow, but it gets repaired in conversations between mothers and sons, with oysters by the Seine, by handholders. I find myself many times upon the bridges: someplace between joy and weeping.

Formalities are also quite lovely here. Most frequently, it is the Americans whom disrupt them, but it is good and interesting because then you can note the Nature, make a sketch of the structures. I appreciate them a lot- and they are adding to my conceptualization of both freedom and will. (more on that later) There is a lot of play when you are working with strict bounds, I like this, I like the movement in it, and going in between.

LANGUAGE

2009-03-16T10:45:00.001+01:00

Getting to know Paris is a challenge, to say the very least. After being here a few weeks, and reviewing my journal, I am finding my first impressions to still stand. Although I know most people probably speak English, I don't find myself in very many conversations outside of the home. Those conversations are often interesting, so I am grateful, but nonetheless, getting a little diversity through the general populace is something I haven't yet quite figured out. Even if you go hang out in a bar (which you don't do for very long considering the cheap beer works out to be about 11 US dollars a pint) it is hard to strike up some general chit-chat. No, folks, this is no Memphis: you're not going to sit down at a neighborhood barstool and be best friends with the old guy that comes in at 9am every day after the requisite five minutes. OK, I can adapt. But how?

Another aspect of mysterious Paris is its Literary reputation. If it still exists here, I am yet to find it. I think I have gathered some clues that may bring me a little closer, but so far... I've been wondering why all these writers found it so "inspirational." Of course, inspiration is a fickle lady, and I've had my moments, but I'm certainly not under her spell. One thing that may be important is this thing about Language. It seems that when your own language become less of a tool- for day to day, utilitarian communication- then it becomes just a means for expression, truly an art. That is a nice idea, I think. Hopefully, we'll start seeing more come from that. Au revoir for now!

FOOD

2009-03-11T09:41:00.003+01:00

Eating in Paris is rather amazing, I must say... and I haven't even been out to eat yet. Upon coming here, I decided I would put anything proffered into my mouth, no questions asked, and that has proved to serve me quite well. (I did stipulate to the Colombs that eating horse was considered cannibalism in my book, but fortunately, they don't eat them either.) So far, I have had some of the very best seafood I've ever tasted- oysters, hazelnut clams, mussles that taste of the ocean, and yes, a lot of snails. I have also learned that you eat certain things by the day of the week, for example, never have steak tartar on a Sunday- you could get sick as these things are not delivered on the weekends. The bread, cheese, and pastries are also all to die for, gathered every day at the local shops. The funny thing is, with all the rich foods, the girls seem to stay quite thin. When I figure out how this happens, I will be sure to update. It has been a lot of fun to try all these new things, but I must say, espresso has become one of the main staples of my diet!

PARIS

2009-03-05T11:55:00.009+01:00

A few photos, first- as the Blogger formatting is quite mysterious to me:

uncle Nappy

my house is the one that is not pink

"what?"

sunset from the second tier of the Tower/my birthday

going out/my room

the living room

Frenchie McFrencherson

me and Noe´

I have landed in Paris, of all places. Not a place that would have been my first instinct to settle, but I have a job, which a lot of French people can’t say. My job consists of augmenting a very precocious 10 year old’s education, as well as helping him with personal development- finding what it is in the world that inspires him. So basically, I take him to school at 8.30, and do whatever I want until 17.30 when I pick him up again. Then, we do some homework, the Chief (the father) comes home, and we all have dinner. there are two older children as well- girls- but one is in boarding school, and the other is 15, so she does her own thing for the most part. I find the children to be relatively agreeable- Iris, the oldest, has many philosophical questions about the world she is finding, and is rather intelligent and careful, thoughtful, so we have great discussions. Lucie, the middle child (in boarding school) seems to be fun and funny, but I know her the least. Noé, the boy, is bright but because of his talent, is quite temperamental. He can be a little gentleman or a total shit. I do not think that any of his previous teachers have been even more strong-willed than he is, so he has had some surprises when tantrums don’t work their usual magic. All in all, though, I find it humorous amidst very educational; these children all speak four languages- English, French, Russian, and Italian. So they have a lot to show me about the world as well. I think it is turning into being a rather symbiotic relationship.

Beyond my job, I am finding Paris to be quite interesting. My neighborhood lacks a bit in the sorts of oddities that might inspire me most (it is completely bourgeois, which in terms of terms, has all new meaning for me), but one does not ever have to venture too far here in Paris for such unknowns. I am beginning to believe that French people are crazy, however. Being of this decent, it adds to my own self-estimation; though I hate to generalize, many of them seem to have, well, issues. I could speculate upon their origin (and probably with a bit of accuracy, if I may say so myself), and may, at some point do so as it would make an interesting post. But for the present, I am trying to get this thing up to date; now that I have good internet, posts will be more frequent and varied in subject, rather than this boring overview stuff. Anyways, people are crazy, I suppose, so perhaps it is just a matter of experiencing for the first time the particular French brand of insanity. All I will say is that more logic ought to be taught in schools.

So, I turned 26 here in Paris. Seems good so far.

WEIN

2009-03-02T09:51:00.003+01:00

I arrived late last night in Vienna. It was good to get out of Germany. I know to most readers this seems like an abrupt jump, but my job with the horses did not play out as planned, (what is this Plan?) and due to visa considerations and fascist conditions, I made my leave. On Tuesday, I will go to Paris for a job interview which so far seems like it will be a little more my style and allot for some MUCH needed creative time rather than ride-eat-sleep-repeat.

But back to Wien… My dear friend Florian picked me up at the airport and then we went and had a drink. Well, I had a drink, as he does not imbibe. How good and blessed to have the sights and smells and other signs of a city! He was an elegant host, and today an equally accommodating cityguide. How good it was to be in a bar! Libations completely aside, I felt as if I was a real person again, amongst other people, living and seeing and speaking. (It also has proved true that I should under no circumstances speak any of the German I learned in a barn…) How true that we are herd animals! Community- even just proximity- is good and necessary, and I value it more than I ever have; what a silly girl I have been to damn such a gift! Times of solitude of course can be productive, and the ability to be alone is much neglected in most, I observe; but I do not think after my month in Groß Wittensee that either should be served in reactionary proportions. One must find a balance. So far, my less than 24 hours in Vienna have done wonders to repay the debt of humanity I was in. Other than being in a city, and in a room full of strangers- glorious, dirty, silly people!- I had a bath in a real bathtub, a proper dinner, and sleep that was relaxed but not out of sheer exhaustion. This morning, we walked through the fleamarket, another grace, and into the city center. I saw St. Stephen’s cathedral (finally!), the infamous Spanish Riding School (finally!), and had a bit of brunch (espresso, rolls with butter, and soft-boiled eggs) in an old artist’s café. (It filled with tourists around noon, and so we left. Germans, nonetheless!) We walked and walked. It was brilliant. It was also nice to see and hear some of the lesser-know treasures of a city filled with so many strange and wonderful things. Vienna is surely a place for the truly bizarre- it is not explicit or obvious, but the tone is calm and ancient and resourceful, inspirational for its plethora of the High arts, dark and bountiful in its mysteries.

In the end, Vienna left me charmed and feeling myself again, or if ever. Nights of long dinners with the thespians and the painters, film men and melancholy ladies, were each a special joy- rare, secluded- that included me utterly. It is brilliant to find a home such as this in the world, even from such a distance. The Viennese as a people are very cultured, dignified, friendly, not even so abrasive when they are being rude. Good will is the general glance of the street, and the city, despite its age and tragedies survived, is sentient as well. I would think of staying there, I was surprisingly comfortable.

as long as it was awaited

2009-02-01T14:59:00.002+01:00

Unfortunately, I cannot yet post any pictures because the lack of plug adaptors has kept me from charging any of my electronics, and I am not on my own computer. Imagine... well, don't. Just wait until I can post pictures.

Where even to begin? Laying awake at night (as I am apt to do) I think up all sorts of things I would like to include here, but this adaptor problem combined with my workload has not left much time for the internet. I promise to be more regular with the posts, as at least half of this will be remedied this week. Let me just note that the place I have come to is so small that the aquisition of a simple adaptor has taken two weeks, and part of it was dont via mail.

I guess I will begin with the horses. That should get the flow going... You know those posters that say 'all I need to know in life I learned in kindergarten'? Well, I am pretty sure I understood the effect that the horse would have upon my very essence before kindergarten (children's garden, in german, btw), but that has certainly been confirmed. Holstein (the 'state' of Germany I have come to) is truly horse country. There are more horses than people here. The people live with their horses, literally. Houses are big brick buildings with huge, thatched roofs. One half is where the people live, and the other half is the barn. You can go to the barn without going outside. Inside the houses, to go to the 'barn' side of the house is just opening a bedroom door. Beyond that, I am riding some of the finest animals in the world. It is almost indescribable. My favorite horse is Johnny. He is a 7 year-old Holsteiner stallion. Yesterday, I jumped him 1meter20. That was pure bliss. You sit on his back, his big, gracious back, and he takes you places. Then, suddenly, you are not a man anymore, you are some other creature- one that has grown new parts, and has new capablities. Jumping him, you almost don't even feel the jumps- even though they are big- you are just going as this new entity, and the jumps come up underneath you, but the whole motion is fluid, elastic; it is earth, air, earth, air. You land after one fence, and he is looking with you for the next one, his ears up, he is exilerated too! You show him the direction of the next jump, and that in combination of asking for the lead change, he says, 'ok, little girl, that one? are you ready? hang on to me, keep your legs there, sit back, here we go!' and oh! how we go! I could close my eyes even, and still the whole thing would be perfect and seamless. Riding John makes me want to read more Plato. In him are all the Virtues- upon his back, in his 400 year-old blood, amongst his mane- I can percieve them all when I feel the softness of his coat. Everything could fall apart and I wouldn't mind as long as I could still have the grace that it is to ride that horse. Having just read a wonderful novel, 'The Life of Pi,' I am into this idea of things that will make one believe in God; riding Johnny will make you believe in God. Any of you men reading this that want to marry me, I'll just say now that I don't want a diamond or any of that silliness. I just want Johnny.

Another horse I really like is the Lifestar 5. I broke him last week (which, when done properly is NOT this cowboy-bucking-bronco shit you see on TV; there was no falling involved, no bucking, no rearing, nothing insane). He is a very sweet boy, just turned 4, is going to be a very cute hunter. He still has baby personality- putting everything in his mouth! But so nice; we started jumping him on Friday. All the horses here are really nice, they are just two of my babies.

My German is coming along. I know about 100 words. However, about 60% of them are specific to equispeak, another 25% are specific to Martin Heidegger, so I guess that only leaves about 15 words that matter to speaking the language generally. And considering that I can count to ten... maybe I actually need to work on that a little more. I will blame Torston. Torston is our mentally challenged stall cleaner. He tries to have complex conversations with me, even though he knows I don't really understand him. And, he is responsible for most of the German I am learning, so we will see what happens when I go to town and try to talk to people. I bet that will be comical. Someone should make a short film where that happens. No, actually, we have some pretty funny interactions. One would not believe what can be communicated through gesticulation. Since we work together, and he does do a bit more than just clean the stalls, sometimes it is very neccessary for us to relate information. 'Go and make the rope so I can turn the foals out in the riding halle' (This involves a complex system of ropes in which to guide the babies that cannot yet be lead with a halfter into the riding halle so they can run around) turns into a pantomime of small pferde (horse) which goes crazy and makes lots of noise when you try to lead it running through a maze and out into the open where it gets a big smile on its little horsey grill. Quite hilarious. I should get someone to video it secretly so you readers can see. Torston has no teeth, and smells very bad, but I am not confident that those aspects would not be lost on video... Mom, next time we play chardes, I'm going to kick your butt! Another interesting aspect of language is that sometimes, even with those that speak english, my vocabulary exceeds the person's comprehension. Here is a point where being a poet is actually quite practical; I can come up with pretty much endless similies for things. When you are miscommunicating, the best solution is to say what the thing you mean is like. Usually it only takes a few 'like' things to achieve understanding.

I live in a cottage on an organic farm. It is about a mile up the road from the barn. It is nice, but the farm is stinky. I have two wood burning fireplaces, and I cook a lot of curry. I don't know why. Perhaps it is because curry makes everything good, even cabage. Typical day: wake up at 7, get dressed, make coffee. Eat toast with nutella, pack lunch, put coffee in thermos. To barn by 8. Ride, turn out horses, tell the farrier what to do, perform silent film with Torston. 1pm, eat lunch: two hard-boiled eggs, almonds, yogurt, apple, bread; sometimes sausage and cheese instead of eggs and nuts. 2-6 ride some more, get yelled at by Max, try to get organized for the next day, clean bits, straighten tack room. Go home, make fire, curry. Shower, read, bed by 9pm. Sleep! Wake up, start over. I'm doing what I love, but working kinda sucks. Thank you, Lord, for my Johnny! It is pretty cold here. Every place I have ever injured myself pretty much constantly aches and complains. It is weird, because I feel like I am in the body of a teenager at times- I consistently am eating bread and butter and cheese and sausage and whole milk and chocolate (all SUPER delicious, btw) and I keep getting thinner and thinner and more muscled, even just after two weeks. But then, I have arthritis and cranky joints, and I can predict the weather with my bones as well as anybody three times my age. Human bodies are mysterious vehicles.

Ok, I think I have given a good overview to catch everyone up. More details to follow... Love from the other side of the sea...

breaking up is hard to do

2009-01-17T22:17:00.003+01:00

This morning my very wonderful brother helped me put the last of the things in storage. Carrying the dresser up the stairs to the storage unit, he kept asking, "Are you good?" I'd reply, "Yeah I'm good. Are you good?" "Yeah, I'm good. Are you STILL good?" [halfway up the flight, me taking the stairs backwards] "Oh, I'm still good! You cool?" "Yeah, I'm cool...."

After that, we were masters of efficiency and the geometry of a 5x10 space. As I locked the door, I took one last look, and said, "Goodbye Memphis." Chris said, "Goodbye America!" rather joyfully, for me in a way. We negotiated some last-minute business, one being the pick-up time of My Piano Monday morning. I am going to miss My Piano very much, he was a good friend, a sentient drinking partner, and over our last year together, we weathered a lot of ups and downs. Breaking up is, indeed, hard to do.

I drove along Madison Avenue, the grey sky above downtown. I passed empty buildings, and wreckless men pushing grocery carts; the streets were a bit deserted, it was quiet and windy. The river was just ahead, behind the city. All I could think was, "Yeah, I'm cool..."

giant puffy vests

2009-01-16T23:21:00.000+01:00

Today I braved the frigidity to find myself a giant puffy vest. This sort of item would not usually be found in my closet, especially because they have the tendency to make very small people look much puffier than they actually are; almost, even, as puffy as the morning after a night of very heavy drinking. I decided that I needed a giant puffy vest because I am now more afraid of the temperature in Hamburg that I previously had the imagination for, and because puffy vest works better for athletic activities than puffy coat. So rachel went with me, and we finally found an acceptable puffy vest in the men's department. (all the women's ones were like pink or shiny or something equally weird.) I will be a red puffer.

I think that pufficity will be useful not only to battle the cold, but also because it is important to go off with a bang. See Mr. Webster:
puffy

Main Entry:
puff
Function:
noun
Date:
13th century
1 a: an act or instance of puffing : whiff b: a slight explosive sound accompanying a puff c: a perceptible cloud or aura emitted in a puff d: draw 1a
2: a light round hollow pastry
3 a: a slight swelling : protuberance b: a fluffy mass: as (1): pouf 2 (2): a small fluffy pad for applying cosmetic powder (3): a soft loose roll of hair (4): a quilted bed covering
4: a commendatory or promotional notice or review
5: an enlarged region of a chromosome that is associated with intensely active genes involved in RNA synthesis

Also, for some reason, I really like the idea that my chromosomes might be enlarged right now.

four days out

2009-01-15T20:53:00.000+01:00

It is a very cold day here in Memphis, the gods I suppose giving me a small taste of what is to come. On Monday, I fly to Hamburg, Germany to begin work riding Jumper horses. It is pretty exciting, but also very empowering when you finally make old dreams come true. Cheesy, right? Perhaps, but to me it is just another example of the importance of imagination: once a thing has been conceived, it's not too far from being.