A: What's that called?
B: It's a notice board.
A: What's it used for?
B: It's used for giving information.
A: Where is it?
B: It's next to the whiteboard.
This is the format of which I will be using for my first teaching lesson come next Monday. It's the beginner's format and we use picture flash cards to prompt the appropriate response. My lesson will be much more exciting though with prompts such as "Monkeys eat bananas" and "Seagulls eat trash". I wanted to do fantasy animals, but the other members of the class politely commented that words such as dragons and gnomes might not have much relevance to the everyday conversations of French villagers. Apparently, "Dragons eat sheep" isn't a particularly useful phrase. Some village.
I've lost inspiration as its been a long day. But all in all, class is going well and hopefully teaching won't be too nerve wracking on Monday. The work itself is time consuming, but not particularly hard. At least not yet. We begin grammar next week. Had a good wrestle with the automatic tea kettle at the school today. Luckily there were no witnesses to the battle as most of the students were outside. I won, though. The sneaky button lay just beneath the handle, hiding, clearly a fan of the guerrilla tactics. You have to love going to a school where you walk out of the bathrooms and run into a white, shaggy llama. Oh, and a peacock. And yet another sort of interesting looking chicken. We americans should really get more creative with our poultry. And we should consider them more often as domestic pets. I think Marge, the prehistoric looking chicken, would make an excellent addition to the Everett household. Perhaps her full name should be Marge the Prehistoric. Sounds threatening for sure. The house I'm staying in truly is an experience. I just helped Mishka take some tea upstairs to Toby and two of his older music students (one of whom is Kenny who is a funny Brit with a rugged smile). The upstairs is a giant unfinished room where Toby and his students practice the guitar and sing until two in the morning on most nights. It seems Kenny is the one who favors Neil Young. I'm determined by the end of the trip to join in and perhaps challenge my fear of singing in front of others. Stupid fear, really, although it is a common one.
God, I just ate another biscuit. The biscuit factory would have been dangerous enough if it sold tasty biscuits, but the fact the the biscuits are actually cookies makes it lethal. I'll come back fluffy for sure. Although I deserved the cookie as I did manage to do yoga today in my room upstairs. Had to be careful not to knock over the dresser though or wedge a splinter in my foot. I've gone matless. A real yogin rouge.
Ok, I'm going to bed before I break into the brie.
Or have any more tea.
Wee.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
So Toby isn't exactly a house elf
Bon Jour France! It may have taken a plane, a train, a bus and a Toby to get me here, but I made it. The Silfiac house is amazing. The country home is really a converted old school house, which according to Toby, has great acoustics for recording. That's right Harry, my house elf plays the guitar. Toby's long time living partner (or at least I think she is his girl friend from what I can tell) Mishka left the graphic design business years ago and now practices massage while traveling back and forth between England and France. In fact she's leaving for Thailand in a week to learn Thai massage and Thai cooking. And there is a dog Nooks who is half wolf and a cat who isn't nearly as playful so I have no idea of its name and a whole flock of chickens, which I have taken the liberty of naming Marge, Ferdinand and Ruthie (there are two other chickens of whom I will name once I get a better sense of their personalities). Oh, and Toby and Mishka are British so it seems I've dropped right on into the British version of Three's Company. I fell asleep last night listening to the muffled voice of Toby singing and strumming Neil Young. Toby says the French fancy Mr. Young. Really though, they are great. No young American off on a French adventure could have asked for better landlords or roommates really. Toby picked me up last night from the bus stop and we puttered straight on over to the grocery store. A bit overwhelming as I, who have cooked perhaps 8 meals in her lifetime, stared at all of the french labels completely aghast as to what to put in my small red cart. But I managed to gather my thoughts and ended the trip with some oranges, apples, bread, cheese (the Brie is only one single euro!), and something that I believed to be sliced turkey. Oh, and cereal. And a fancy chocolate bar to calm my nerves.
RUN UPDATE
Went for a run this morning. I know, crazy. Freezing. Lots of cows. Solid country views. Will run more. Was told to be on the watch for boars and to run the other way or perhaps grab a stick to prevent attack. Luckily, no boars.
Traveling truly is surreal. You leave Texas and in less than 24 hours you find yourself standing in a small French village that looks like something out a movie and chewing down a baguette with two hippie British folk. I don't think it has entirely set in yet. The village itself is quite tiny.
Oh and I almost forget my charming new British friend named Chris. So I left Paris yesterday morning and took a train to St. Brieuc where I found myself struggling about two flights of steps with two exceedingly large suitcases (yes, yes, mother you were right). Anyway, I managed to succeed and exited the train station in full confidence ready to tackle the French bus system. Finally found the right bus stop and realized I had a solid three hours to kill. So there I was, young and American as I looked with my giant bags and large yellow coat bustling about cursing the French for their cobblestone walkways that were so mean to the small wheels of my suitcases. You can't say the Americans aren't utilitarian with regards to sidewalks, thats for sure. Anyway, I walked or really fell into the nearest open pub and spat out "bonjour" to the three elderly French staring at me from the bar. One whom I took to be the owner, looked at me quizzically and then retorted, "Sleep?". I said no, glanced at the menu and sputtered out "Pizza" the only word listed that wasn't in French. Did I actually want a pizza? No, of course not, but given the circumstances and my rather frazzled nature, pizza is what I got. I would like to say it was a lovely pizza, but the truth of the matter was it had to have come from some sort of frozen microwave oven dinner. Microwave pizza or not though, it did the trick and a put my bags down and began to warm up slowly hoping no one would try speaking French to me for awhile lest I order some other grain dish of which I had no appetite for. And now for Chris. Chris bumbled into the pub in precisely the same manner I had, although he only had one suitcase and stammered out a phrase that resembled "Vodka and Pepsi". My heart glowed, an Englishman! I hadn't worked the courage to shout across the bar yet, but after seeing him reach for a pocket size book with the word "French" stamped across in big bold letters, I made my move.
"Are you English?", I nearly shouted across the way.
His head perked up, "Why yes. What are you doing in St. Brieuc?"
"I am taking a TESOL certification course. What about you?
"Oh that's brillant! I am too" he eagerly shouted back.
Chris then pulled up a chair, our suitcases now accounting for half the bar and we both ordered a drink. Chris is a wiry chap of 26 years old, with a great high pitched laugh and quick sense of humor. Although, in all honesty, anyone speaking in a British accent automatically sounds 18 times more witty than the average American. Truly, its not fair. By the same token, Australians automatically sound 18 times more cool than the average American. Anyway, just as Chris and I were sparking up conversation, a large French bloke by the name of Philip (Pheeleep) thundered over and asked in his thick French accent, "Are you English?". Chris chimed in yes, and before I could get out that I was American, Texan no less, Philip began regaling of the historical ties between France and England and how honored he was that the British had lost so many lives to save the French in WWII. He then went on that he was directly related to Cornwall and continued on about the democratic ties between all of our nations (by this point I had been able to speak up that I came from the US of A) and how much he loved his British neighbors and friends. He then warned us about people spiking our drinks, said what a shame it is that some of the British youth are anti-monarchy, and shared that he worked for the Catholic association taking telephone calls. At this point, I looked up at the clock and suggested to Chris that we head out so as not to miss our bus. We said our goodbyes to Philip and then me, Chris and our gaggle of suitcases took off. We made it to the bus where we found another future pupil, Brenden, the Australian. From St. Brieuc the bus took us to Rostrenen and from Rostrenen Toby took us to the grocery store which is where I began this recanting this tale starting with my nerve soothing chocolate bar purchase. And now I await the arrival of our final peer, Rowan. Another Brit and the only other student staying at the Silfiac house. I'll let you know if he is 6'4" and owns a castle which would thereby make him fit for me and, well, my future life I suppose.
RUN UPDATE
Went for a run this morning. I know, crazy. Freezing. Lots of cows. Solid country views. Will run more. Was told to be on the watch for boars and to run the other way or perhaps grab a stick to prevent attack. Luckily, no boars.
Traveling truly is surreal. You leave Texas and in less than 24 hours you find yourself standing in a small French village that looks like something out a movie and chewing down a baguette with two hippie British folk. I don't think it has entirely set in yet. The village itself is quite tiny.
Oh and I almost forget my charming new British friend named Chris. So I left Paris yesterday morning and took a train to St. Brieuc where I found myself struggling about two flights of steps with two exceedingly large suitcases (yes, yes, mother you were right). Anyway, I managed to succeed and exited the train station in full confidence ready to tackle the French bus system. Finally found the right bus stop and realized I had a solid three hours to kill. So there I was, young and American as I looked with my giant bags and large yellow coat bustling about cursing the French for their cobblestone walkways that were so mean to the small wheels of my suitcases. You can't say the Americans aren't utilitarian with regards to sidewalks, thats for sure. Anyway, I walked or really fell into the nearest open pub and spat out "bonjour" to the three elderly French staring at me from the bar. One whom I took to be the owner, looked at me quizzically and then retorted, "Sleep?". I said no, glanced at the menu and sputtered out "Pizza" the only word listed that wasn't in French. Did I actually want a pizza? No, of course not, but given the circumstances and my rather frazzled nature, pizza is what I got. I would like to say it was a lovely pizza, but the truth of the matter was it had to have come from some sort of frozen microwave oven dinner. Microwave pizza or not though, it did the trick and a put my bags down and began to warm up slowly hoping no one would try speaking French to me for awhile lest I order some other grain dish of which I had no appetite for. And now for Chris. Chris bumbled into the pub in precisely the same manner I had, although he only had one suitcase and stammered out a phrase that resembled "Vodka and Pepsi". My heart glowed, an Englishman! I hadn't worked the courage to shout across the bar yet, but after seeing him reach for a pocket size book with the word "French" stamped across in big bold letters, I made my move.
"Are you English?", I nearly shouted across the way.
His head perked up, "Why yes. What are you doing in St. Brieuc?"
"I am taking a TESOL certification course. What about you?
"Oh that's brillant! I am too" he eagerly shouted back.
Chris then pulled up a chair, our suitcases now accounting for half the bar and we both ordered a drink. Chris is a wiry chap of 26 years old, with a great high pitched laugh and quick sense of humor. Although, in all honesty, anyone speaking in a British accent automatically sounds 18 times more witty than the average American. Truly, its not fair. By the same token, Australians automatically sound 18 times more cool than the average American. Anyway, just as Chris and I were sparking up conversation, a large French bloke by the name of Philip (Pheeleep) thundered over and asked in his thick French accent, "Are you English?". Chris chimed in yes, and before I could get out that I was American, Texan no less, Philip began regaling of the historical ties between France and England and how honored he was that the British had lost so many lives to save the French in WWII. He then went on that he was directly related to Cornwall and continued on about the democratic ties between all of our nations (by this point I had been able to speak up that I came from the US of A) and how much he loved his British neighbors and friends. He then warned us about people spiking our drinks, said what a shame it is that some of the British youth are anti-monarchy, and shared that he worked for the Catholic association taking telephone calls. At this point, I looked up at the clock and suggested to Chris that we head out so as not to miss our bus. We said our goodbyes to Philip and then me, Chris and our gaggle of suitcases took off. We made it to the bus where we found another future pupil, Brenden, the Australian. From St. Brieuc the bus took us to Rostrenen and from Rostrenen Toby took us to the grocery store which is where I began this recanting this tale starting with my nerve soothing chocolate bar purchase. And now I await the arrival of our final peer, Rowan. Another Brit and the only other student staying at the Silfiac house. I'll let you know if he is 6'4" and owns a castle which would thereby make him fit for me and, well, my future life I suppose.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Du Weeks and Counting
So, after battling the flu for the past week, I emerged less than victorious from my bedroom encampment to scamper about in attempts to get everything arranged for the big trip. Today I can check off my list "buy a sliver, shark engraved flashy flash drive", "buy a small Say it in French phrase book" and "email family friend about staying at their place in Paris". All this means is I now own a ridiculous flash drive, I can now ask for directions to the bathroom or comment on how nice the brandy was (this is apparently an important phrase) and my first night in Paris should go smoothly as I have secured shelter.
Really though, I just can't wait to pack. I love packing. I've already prepared a list of wardrobe necessities, although I fear my subcategory of footwear necessities is more than unnecessary. I haven't written in awhile and its a bit rough. I am determined though to write four times a week while abroad. I think it will help keep me sane and will give me something to do. Since I will have no friends. And no particularly large sum of money. All we can ask is that the language school have a board game collection. I figure I can always make friends at the Scrabble table. Unless of course, its French Scrabble and then I will be excluded given my language barrier and forced to play something more provincial like dominoes.
On a different note, do you ever wonder how your body is able to make such copious amounts of mucus when sick? I mean really, if I blow my nose one more time I am going to lose it. I have had a long past of sinus problems and I have about had it with my maxillary inflammation. Go away, I say. There's really nothing like those "oh shit" moments right after you sneeze either. You have to act as if your scratching the tip of your nose the whole way to the bathroom so that you don't offend anyone who might happen to look at you and discover the little love drippings that extend from your nostril to your upper lip. We think we abide by the simple rules of cleanliness, but really at times of illness, its back to the ways of the beasts. You're just lucky if you make it without sneezing on any of the smaller, less able creatures around you.
So while trying to look up how to say "I am sick" in my handy little French Phrase Book, I took a moment to scour the section entitled "Drug Store". Listed were the following.
Phrase 851. Boric Acid. De l'acide borique.
Phrase 853. Carbolic acid. Du phenol.
Phrase 854. Castor Oil. De l'huile de ricin.
Phrase 858. Corn Pads. Les toiles anticor.
Phrase 863. Epsom Salts. Des sels d'Epsoms.
Phrase 878. Quinine. De la quinine.
All I can gather from the phrases offered is that oftentimes when one steps inside a French drug store you are actually transported back to France circa 1923. Seriously, though. Boric Acid? Corn Pads? Castor Oil? Quinine? Are the good people of France battling malaria as of late?
I hope the rest of my handy little phrase book is a bit more up to date and I pray I won't have to ever actually have to ask for any of the above, in French or English.
And so ends my day.
Official Countdown: 13 days.
Oh and for the record. I have named the engraved shark on the let of my flash drive Max and the one the the right, Regis. Like Regis Philban. But better, because he's Regis the Shark.
Me. Max. And Regis. All on a great journey, together as one shark pack. Shark pod? Should be good.
Really though, I just can't wait to pack. I love packing. I've already prepared a list of wardrobe necessities, although I fear my subcategory of footwear necessities is more than unnecessary. I haven't written in awhile and its a bit rough. I am determined though to write four times a week while abroad. I think it will help keep me sane and will give me something to do. Since I will have no friends. And no particularly large sum of money. All we can ask is that the language school have a board game collection. I figure I can always make friends at the Scrabble table. Unless of course, its French Scrabble and then I will be excluded given my language barrier and forced to play something more provincial like dominoes.
On a different note, do you ever wonder how your body is able to make such copious amounts of mucus when sick? I mean really, if I blow my nose one more time I am going to lose it. I have had a long past of sinus problems and I have about had it with my maxillary inflammation. Go away, I say. There's really nothing like those "oh shit" moments right after you sneeze either. You have to act as if your scratching the tip of your nose the whole way to the bathroom so that you don't offend anyone who might happen to look at you and discover the little love drippings that extend from your nostril to your upper lip. We think we abide by the simple rules of cleanliness, but really at times of illness, its back to the ways of the beasts. You're just lucky if you make it without sneezing on any of the smaller, less able creatures around you.
So while trying to look up how to say "I am sick" in my handy little French Phrase Book, I took a moment to scour the section entitled "Drug Store". Listed were the following.
Phrase 851. Boric Acid. De l'acide borique.
Phrase 853. Carbolic acid. Du phenol.
Phrase 854. Castor Oil. De l'huile de ricin.
Phrase 858. Corn Pads. Les toiles anticor.
Phrase 863. Epsom Salts. Des sels d'Epsoms.
Phrase 878. Quinine. De la quinine.
All I can gather from the phrases offered is that oftentimes when one steps inside a French drug store you are actually transported back to France circa 1923. Seriously, though. Boric Acid? Corn Pads? Castor Oil? Quinine? Are the good people of France battling malaria as of late?
I hope the rest of my handy little phrase book is a bit more up to date and I pray I won't have to ever actually have to ask for any of the above, in French or English.
And so ends my day.
Official Countdown: 13 days.
Oh and for the record. I have named the engraved shark on the let of my flash drive Max and the one the the right, Regis. Like Regis Philban. But better, because he's Regis the Shark.
Me. Max. And Regis. All on a great journey, together as one shark pack. Shark pod? Should be good.
Friday, December 3, 2010
It's like members of the EU think they are developed countries or something
So, France is actually unlike Buenos Aires in a number of ways. For instance, the EU has actual visa regulations that make it rather difficult for an upper middle class white girl with little or really no teaching experience to obtain a permanent work visa. I was told though that I could work under the table. Oh really? Because that's so reassuring. Thats got sex trade written all over it as far as I'm concerned. I then considered Poland. Surely, good ole Poland would be a bit more relaxed than France. Negative. Apparently the majority of countries that don't offer a side of parasite with their water require extensive documentation to reside in their borders for more than 3 months. Who knew?
But, don't you worry. See I can say little comments like this because I just got my first official blog follower!!! Yep, the people want me. They want to hear more.
To keep you updated, I am currently drinking red wine and listening to the Moulin Rougue soundtrack and hassling other work people to go out with me so that I'm not alone with red wine and Mrs. Rougue. It is a movie based in France though so basically, I'm French and basically, I will no longer be inhibited by paranoid visa laws. Seriously though, France, could you be anymore xenophobic? I merely wish to inundate your up and coming youth with American culture and value systems/marry one of your fallen royalty. One of the two.
So, to go along with the whole depressing metaphysical thang of my past blogs, let's discuss this recent text I received.
First, though, some background. His name is Rick Powers. Yep, no joke, true name.
Stats.
Coloring: Brunette.
Height: 6'1'' (maybe)
Occupation: Theatre.
Interests: Cigarets. Women.
Overall character: Funny kid who makes great little sharpie cartoons, yet is still strangely charming in a sophisticated sort of way.
And he thinks people don't understand him. I just nailed him to a tee.
Anyway, here is the text dialogue. Oh wait, more important background information. I may or may not have been strangely in love with him in a sophisticated way during my freshman year of college. So naturally, our current relationship now involves random drunk texts that usually occur at three month intervals.
(November 25th, 2010 2:21am)
Kelsea: Your weird, but in a good way...and not just in a like oh your a dude but more in a like oh your wierd and intense and I like you as just a person...no clue if that makes sense but yep, true statement.
I like ellispses when I'm drunk...
(November 29th, 2010 1:46am)
Mr. Powers: Hey, I'm drunk.
Kelsea: wakes up at 2:00am, but gives no response to a text so lacking in all possible creative capacities
Kelsea: Ps drunk texts from me say things like I've figured out the universe or let's listen to spring awakening or hey Rick I think your an awesome person...so, you sir need to step up your game if you expect a response.
[I apparently like to quote myself in all of my texts as if I were actually speaking to him]
Rick: no response to a text lacking a necessary response
Rick: So I figured out why everyone is unhappy. I win. Ha!
[it's hard to tell here if Rick's "I win. Ha!" is an exclamation to the universe as a whole or an in-yo-face to me and my desire for more interesting and controversial texts]
Kelsea: Ah and why is everyone so unhappy?
Rick: Because everyone wants someone to have the answers for them but everyone always has a question that they don't have an answer for...i think that's the best way to expain it
Kelsea: So what is your question that makes you unhappy and know one can answer for you?
[I've left in all typos for validity's sake]
Rick: Can you ever really understand another person and ore importantly can anyone understand you?
Kelsea: Isn't that kinda what you are supposed to be looking for? Someone who is just like you or at least on the same level of thinking and values and humor too?
Rick: I agree but its impossible to know if someone really understands you. We'll discuss this when I move back because texting does not enable the necessary discussion level
Kelsea: Ha fine but in a weird way, I feel like some people just get it. Like old souls or something. Some people just understand things. Or I think its a level of being aware of how you act and how other people respond. Yeah, texting don't quite work.
Rick: You are so sweetly naive.
[End convo, Dec. 3 2010 1:09 am]
Honestly, it was his final text that really spurred me to write about this little exchange in the first place. It's a very good line in general. Even just the pairing of words really, "sweetly naive".
Now that said, I think he's wrong. But the diction is nice. Apparently, inspiring even.
Ok well, I've been interrupted and I'm no longer entirely sure why I was quoting this texting conversation in the first place, but I'll be sure to get back to the analysis as soon as possible. I think I was trying to maintain a metaphysical vibe through out my posts. I think this will suffice.
What forever unanswered question will keep you indefinitely unhappy?
It's worth a few minutes reflection for sure. I think from previous posts its evident that my unanswered question would be something along the lines of "why the hell are we here?"
Bon voyage, France. Hallo, Prague.
But, don't you worry. See I can say little comments like this because I just got my first official blog follower!!! Yep, the people want me. They want to hear more.
To keep you updated, I am currently drinking red wine and listening to the Moulin Rougue soundtrack and hassling other work people to go out with me so that I'm not alone with red wine and Mrs. Rougue. It is a movie based in France though so basically, I'm French and basically, I will no longer be inhibited by paranoid visa laws. Seriously though, France, could you be anymore xenophobic? I merely wish to inundate your up and coming youth with American culture and value systems/marry one of your fallen royalty. One of the two.
So, to go along with the whole depressing metaphysical thang of my past blogs, let's discuss this recent text I received.
First, though, some background. His name is Rick Powers. Yep, no joke, true name.
Stats.
Coloring: Brunette.
Height: 6'1'' (maybe)
Occupation: Theatre.
Interests: Cigarets. Women.
Overall character: Funny kid who makes great little sharpie cartoons, yet is still strangely charming in a sophisticated sort of way.
And he thinks people don't understand him. I just nailed him to a tee.
Anyway, here is the text dialogue. Oh wait, more important background information. I may or may not have been strangely in love with him in a sophisticated way during my freshman year of college. So naturally, our current relationship now involves random drunk texts that usually occur at three month intervals.
(November 25th, 2010 2:21am)
Kelsea: Your weird, but in a good way...and not just in a like oh your a dude but more in a like oh your wierd and intense and I like you as just a person...no clue if that makes sense but yep, true statement.
I like ellispses when I'm drunk...
(November 29th, 2010 1:46am)
Mr. Powers: Hey, I'm drunk.
Kelsea: wakes up at 2:00am, but gives no response to a text so lacking in all possible creative capacities
Kelsea: Ps drunk texts from me say things like I've figured out the universe or let's listen to spring awakening or hey Rick I think your an awesome person...so, you sir need to step up your game if you expect a response.
[I apparently like to quote myself in all of my texts as if I were actually speaking to him]
Rick: no response to a text lacking a necessary response
Rick: So I figured out why everyone is unhappy. I win. Ha!
[it's hard to tell here if Rick's "I win. Ha!" is an exclamation to the universe as a whole or an in-yo-face to me and my desire for more interesting and controversial texts]
Kelsea: Ah and why is everyone so unhappy?
Rick: Because everyone wants someone to have the answers for them but everyone always has a question that they don't have an answer for...i think that's the best way to expain it
Kelsea: So what is your question that makes you unhappy and know one can answer for you?
[I've left in all typos for validity's sake]
Rick: Can you ever really understand another person and ore importantly can anyone understand you?
Kelsea: Isn't that kinda what you are supposed to be looking for? Someone who is just like you or at least on the same level of thinking and values and humor too?
Rick: I agree but its impossible to know if someone really understands you. We'll discuss this when I move back because texting does not enable the necessary discussion level
Kelsea: Ha fine but in a weird way, I feel like some people just get it. Like old souls or something. Some people just understand things. Or I think its a level of being aware of how you act and how other people respond. Yeah, texting don't quite work.
Rick: You are so sweetly naive.
[End convo, Dec. 3 2010 1:09 am]
Honestly, it was his final text that really spurred me to write about this little exchange in the first place. It's a very good line in general. Even just the pairing of words really, "sweetly naive".
Now that said, I think he's wrong. But the diction is nice. Apparently, inspiring even.
Ok well, I've been interrupted and I'm no longer entirely sure why I was quoting this texting conversation in the first place, but I'll be sure to get back to the analysis as soon as possible. I think I was trying to maintain a metaphysical vibe through out my posts. I think this will suffice.
What forever unanswered question will keep you indefinitely unhappy?
It's worth a few minutes reflection for sure. I think from previous posts its evident that my unanswered question would be something along the lines of "why the hell are we here?"
Bon voyage, France. Hallo, Prague.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Because Brittany, France is kinda like Buenos Aires
So, change of plans. I want to be that cool earthy girl who wants to teach English in South America, but I'm not. So France it is. Fewer parasites, better food.
My parents and I just finished a lovely discussion concerning their role as my personal financial backers. We had a few hiccups at the beginning as he began what I will refer to as "lawyering". I kindly reminded him we were in the family living room and not in the middle of a heated business deal transaction. He gruffled (yes, I realize this is made up) at me, but then slowly changed his ways. I picture the word gruffle as being defined as the grumbling noise made when someone gets his or her feathers in a ruffle. Gruffling. Although, admittedly this word could also be a creature of the Harry Potter collection. But, really now I'm just thinking those Griffin thingys that are half lion, half falcon. Fions really. I bet there are Fion statues somewhere in France. They seem like the sort of thing the French would fancy.
It was also brought to my attention by my favorite lawyer, that I don't speak French. I retorted that I speak Spanish. He retorted, my point exactly, let me repeat, you don't speak French. Lucky for me, I had picked up a beginners French sing-along CD just a few months ago and I was able to end this discussion of my linguistic competency with an "Un, du, twah. Bonjour. Madmoiselle".
Clearly, I would be fine.
Adious, Buenos Aires. Bonjour, France.
My parents and I just finished a lovely discussion concerning their role as my personal financial backers. We had a few hiccups at the beginning as he began what I will refer to as "lawyering". I kindly reminded him we were in the family living room and not in the middle of a heated business deal transaction. He gruffled (yes, I realize this is made up) at me, but then slowly changed his ways. I picture the word gruffle as being defined as the grumbling noise made when someone gets his or her feathers in a ruffle. Gruffling. Although, admittedly this word could also be a creature of the Harry Potter collection. But, really now I'm just thinking those Griffin thingys that are half lion, half falcon. Fions really. I bet there are Fion statues somewhere in France. They seem like the sort of thing the French would fancy.
It was also brought to my attention by my favorite lawyer, that I don't speak French. I retorted that I speak Spanish. He retorted, my point exactly, let me repeat, you don't speak French. Lucky for me, I had picked up a beginners French sing-along CD just a few months ago and I was able to end this discussion of my linguistic competency with an "Un, du, twah. Bonjour. Madmoiselle".
Clearly, I would be fine.
Adious, Buenos Aires. Bonjour, France.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
An attempt to explain an unidentifiable, sneaky emotion
So naturally its been a month since I found the desire to post again. Well, here it is. I want to move to Buenos Aires. To teach. English. People who know me might laugh aloud at this statement do to my overall clumsiness at life and particularly unimposing character which doesn't make me a very authoritative sort of being. People who really know me, think I will do fine. Which I will. But, I'm still nervous as all heck.
There seems to be a fine line between thinking you should do something because its the sort of thing a person like you should, or really, would want to do and doing something because you really want to. I find this intriguing because there is always a divide between who you currently are. What you currently think you should be. And what you must do to get there. And then the you that gets there and is still yearning to be another you. Sort of makes you wonder which you is really you. Which you counts. Which you should raise it's hand if the authority of the natural world was demanding a role call.
If its one thing I find interesting about the current teachings of the college of metaphysics, which I have caught bits and pieces through my mother (and undoubtedly filtered them thus), its the idea to try and step outside of your emotion as you are experiencing it. Try to say out loud all of your thoughts to explain why you are feeling the way you are. Why you are feeling some sort of unpleasant, yet difficult to identify sort of emotion.
By doing so, I think I have gotten closer to understanding why I have been feeling the way I have been feeling. Its this overwhelming feeling that floods into me at the strangest of moments. For instance, in savasana the other day. Sticky place to feel the need to break down, seeing as its deathly silent and you are trapped in a dark yoga studio room with twenty nostril breathing strangers . Or, for example, tonight on my drive home from Buffalo Wild Wings. More private, but its still just as disconcerting when that sneaky emotional response comes pouring out at odd moments. Apparently, ranch can have dangerous emotional side effects.
Anyway, back to my analysis of why I am having these emotions. It goes something like this. I'm twenty two working at what is for me a transitional job in retail (although lululemon, is to be fair much more than retail, but I just don't see myself as a manager or really a business person at all). So, when I am safely locked in transition, working at the mall, living with my parents, driving the car my parents bought, flashing the health insurance with my father's name as the primary, and sleeping in my childhood bed, it feels like all possibility is still open. I am still an infinite, undecided potentiality. I am always in a state of becoming and it seems if I never follow through with a single action towards permanency, then life remains infinite. I am very much alive and the idea of only one life to live with less than one hundred years to breath and just one life partner to share it with appears as a distant, harmless, formless figure on a horizon of which I am headed too but will never reach. Taking definitive action on a career path, feels like I am closing down every other door and I am made very aware that as a human being, I only get one shot. One life to live. I don't really mean any of this to have a spiritual connotation. I mean it in a very literal and scary way. Its because as soon as I really dig deep into what I want to do, I see my whole life slowly lining up before me and suddenly I am a certain "career" with a certain"husband" living in a certain "place" with certain "kids" in a certain "school district" and thats that. I mean, I might like, or love every certain thing in my life. It's just that it means its decided. Its done. Ok its not that bleak, but then suddenly I am 57 years old wondering what the hell happened. It's no wonder people go through mid-life crises. To get back to a state of flippant youth, where life is suddenly infinite potential again and you can start anew, no nagging, decided strings attached. If at 22 your identity awaits you, at 57 it haunts you. So again, if I can just stay here, hiding in Lakewood without making decisions which give me some sort of lasting identity, well then death seems much farther away.
Let me stress here, its not so much the actuality of dying or what that feels like or what comes after. Its just the looming sense of you only get to be one you. Not different "you's". Its similar to that trapped feeling when you want to run far into the woods where no one can find you. Or chunk your cell phone out the window. People talk about the "sublime" or the breathlessness that occurs when you find youself face to face with nature. With something without a consciousness, something that can't care if you are there or not. I don't mean this either in a vague or overly used sort of way. Like how nature reminds of how small we really are. People say phrases like this in passing or at times when its just the time to say that sort of thing. I mean this in a real sense. A lump in your throat. An overwhelming feeling of being at a loss. That little you standing in some untouched national park standing at the base of a mountain that just doesn't particularly give a fuck. Its a plunging sensation. Like diving into cold water. Or what one imagines jumping off a cliff would feel like. (and no, I don't mean this in a suicidal sense, just a physical comparison to the emotional response) Perhaps, bun-gee jumping is a safer, more PC comparison.
Time to step back. I should say here, I obviously don't feel this continually. And its not a sort of "depressed" feeling per se.
I suppose its just an awareness that you only get one life. And I am nervous because as soon as I actually begin that life, I can see straight through to the end, and this clarity makes it a mute point. A why bother now? Maybe thats what people really mean when they say you have to grow up. You have to accept that you will have a singular identity and you only have so much time, so get moving. Be responsible. Get a plan.
And I think they are right. This is a sort of coming to terms. And oddly enough, I think for some people there is a safety in this. A comforting feeling that I don't have. I think some would say I am only NOT comforted because I haven't found what makes me passionate. And maybe they are right. But I think this goes deeper than that. Its an issue of developing any type of identity. And yes we change and we grow and we develop. But our four year old self is still considered our eighty year old self. And you don't get to start again at eighty.
So hell, maybe it is really a fear of death. Sounds sort of cliche and typical, but it seems to be the final final cause. The uncaused cause. So apparently it seems, Buenos Aires is located directionally opposite of where ever my version of death calls his home. Again, ironic that I find a sense of death in finding my true identity.
Tried to read Neitzche. It's interesting for sure. But, I think it would be more interesting if I felt like I was grasping even 35% of what he is saying.
Begs the question. Am I just the type of person who wants to be the type of person who reads Neitzsche in their spare time? Or am I actually the person who reads Neitszche in their spare time? Well, I guess I can say one thing for sure, I am the person who most likely isn't spelling his name right.
But who honestly needs the Germans anyway?
Buenos Aires, here I come.
There seems to be a fine line between thinking you should do something because its the sort of thing a person like you should, or really, would want to do and doing something because you really want to. I find this intriguing because there is always a divide between who you currently are. What you currently think you should be. And what you must do to get there. And then the you that gets there and is still yearning to be another you. Sort of makes you wonder which you is really you. Which you counts. Which you should raise it's hand if the authority of the natural world was demanding a role call.
If its one thing I find interesting about the current teachings of the college of metaphysics, which I have caught bits and pieces through my mother (and undoubtedly filtered them thus), its the idea to try and step outside of your emotion as you are experiencing it. Try to say out loud all of your thoughts to explain why you are feeling the way you are. Why you are feeling some sort of unpleasant, yet difficult to identify sort of emotion.
By doing so, I think I have gotten closer to understanding why I have been feeling the way I have been feeling. Its this overwhelming feeling that floods into me at the strangest of moments. For instance, in savasana the other day. Sticky place to feel the need to break down, seeing as its deathly silent and you are trapped in a dark yoga studio room with twenty nostril breathing strangers . Or, for example, tonight on my drive home from Buffalo Wild Wings. More private, but its still just as disconcerting when that sneaky emotional response comes pouring out at odd moments. Apparently, ranch can have dangerous emotional side effects.
Anyway, back to my analysis of why I am having these emotions. It goes something like this. I'm twenty two working at what is for me a transitional job in retail (although lululemon, is to be fair much more than retail, but I just don't see myself as a manager or really a business person at all). So, when I am safely locked in transition, working at the mall, living with my parents, driving the car my parents bought, flashing the health insurance with my father's name as the primary, and sleeping in my childhood bed, it feels like all possibility is still open. I am still an infinite, undecided potentiality. I am always in a state of becoming and it seems if I never follow through with a single action towards permanency, then life remains infinite. I am very much alive and the idea of only one life to live with less than one hundred years to breath and just one life partner to share it with appears as a distant, harmless, formless figure on a horizon of which I am headed too but will never reach. Taking definitive action on a career path, feels like I am closing down every other door and I am made very aware that as a human being, I only get one shot. One life to live. I don't really mean any of this to have a spiritual connotation. I mean it in a very literal and scary way. Its because as soon as I really dig deep into what I want to do, I see my whole life slowly lining up before me and suddenly I am a certain "career" with a certain"husband" living in a certain "place" with certain "kids" in a certain "school district" and thats that. I mean, I might like, or love every certain thing in my life. It's just that it means its decided. Its done. Ok its not that bleak, but then suddenly I am 57 years old wondering what the hell happened. It's no wonder people go through mid-life crises. To get back to a state of flippant youth, where life is suddenly infinite potential again and you can start anew, no nagging, decided strings attached. If at 22 your identity awaits you, at 57 it haunts you. So again, if I can just stay here, hiding in Lakewood without making decisions which give me some sort of lasting identity, well then death seems much farther away.
Let me stress here, its not so much the actuality of dying or what that feels like or what comes after. Its just the looming sense of you only get to be one you. Not different "you's". Its similar to that trapped feeling when you want to run far into the woods where no one can find you. Or chunk your cell phone out the window. People talk about the "sublime" or the breathlessness that occurs when you find youself face to face with nature. With something without a consciousness, something that can't care if you are there or not. I don't mean this either in a vague or overly used sort of way. Like how nature reminds of how small we really are. People say phrases like this in passing or at times when its just the time to say that sort of thing. I mean this in a real sense. A lump in your throat. An overwhelming feeling of being at a loss. That little you standing in some untouched national park standing at the base of a mountain that just doesn't particularly give a fuck. Its a plunging sensation. Like diving into cold water. Or what one imagines jumping off a cliff would feel like. (and no, I don't mean this in a suicidal sense, just a physical comparison to the emotional response) Perhaps, bun-gee jumping is a safer, more PC comparison.
Time to step back. I should say here, I obviously don't feel this continually. And its not a sort of "depressed" feeling per se.
I suppose its just an awareness that you only get one life. And I am nervous because as soon as I actually begin that life, I can see straight through to the end, and this clarity makes it a mute point. A why bother now? Maybe thats what people really mean when they say you have to grow up. You have to accept that you will have a singular identity and you only have so much time, so get moving. Be responsible. Get a plan.
And I think they are right. This is a sort of coming to terms. And oddly enough, I think for some people there is a safety in this. A comforting feeling that I don't have. I think some would say I am only NOT comforted because I haven't found what makes me passionate. And maybe they are right. But I think this goes deeper than that. Its an issue of developing any type of identity. And yes we change and we grow and we develop. But our four year old self is still considered our eighty year old self. And you don't get to start again at eighty.
So hell, maybe it is really a fear of death. Sounds sort of cliche and typical, but it seems to be the final final cause. The uncaused cause. So apparently it seems, Buenos Aires is located directionally opposite of where ever my version of death calls his home. Again, ironic that I find a sense of death in finding my true identity.
Tried to read Neitzche. It's interesting for sure. But, I think it would be more interesting if I felt like I was grasping even 35% of what he is saying.
Begs the question. Am I just the type of person who wants to be the type of person who reads Neitzsche in their spare time? Or am I actually the person who reads Neitszche in their spare time? Well, I guess I can say one thing for sure, I am the person who most likely isn't spelling his name right.
But who honestly needs the Germans anyway?
Buenos Aires, here I come.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Because Ms. Diamond had one (a practice round)
Clearing: I may or may not have started this after hearing that my BFFL (pronounced "biffel", best friend for life) and role model, Gerri Diamond, has recently taken to writing a "run" blog about her new life in Baltimore. And in the grand scheme of things, we may be the only two who regularly follow each others blogs, because far be it from us to actually stay in contact with people in any direct manner. We tend to "creep" on like things like facebook and blogspots because then we can stay updated on others whereabouts and adventurous exploits without actually speaking to them.
Tricky things, blogs. Attempting to be funny, without being too cheeky, obnoxious or continually self deprecating. Sincere, but in all honesty your publishing your thoughts on a "google" blog so just how open and tech savvy can you really pretend to be? I think this must happen a lot in a blog too, making fun of your own self in attempts to rationalize your own blog endeavor efforts.
I think the real issue at heart is, that when you choose to create a blog, you tacitly imply that people would actually want to read what you write. Well, not even imply really, but more directly, you actually believe people will find what you have to say interesting, funny or thought provoking. And that's a scary thing to appear to think, and deep down sorta maybe think too, I think.
Clearing Number 2: I spent 17 minutes attempting to come up with a catchy name for the thing, follwed by another 13 minutes to come up with a "url" name and finally another 31 minutes playing with the page settings and colors and fonts. In all honesty, my initial enthusiasm has declined, but in the spirit of the hour I decided I must at least post something.
Clearing about the term "clearing": I work at lululemon. We use a lot of uplifting, goal orienting, self opening jargon, like "clearing".
Blogs in and of themselves are like clearings, really. It just means spitting out the things that are floating about your mind that are keeping you from being present.
I should take a moment to interject here that aside from me working for a company that promotes "self development", my mother also teaches at the College of Metaphysics. So, if by chance you plan to be a regular follower of this blog, just prepare yourself. This is the third time while writing that I have paused and thought of a few sentences to write in my head (the most recent being, "even eckhart tolle couldn't submerse himself in this metaphysical of an environment). I then decided this wasn't a very funny or particularly profound statement and so I chose not to include it. I then wondered if I could write about wondering whether to write something. And then I wrote it so, so much for just wondering.
I wonder if people will find little free flowing tangents like the one above intriguing or annoying.
Perhaps, I shall just write all of my "wondering" comments in italics.
Yes. Italics most certainly suits the wondering. This is getting to be a bit strange and perhaps too free form.
Anyway, I've also decided to catalogue code names (well some of them aren't so encrypted) of some of the characters in my life.
RECAP on characters thus far:
Planet Holly, Ms. Diamond, Mr. Swarrick, Sherah, Fluster Bunny, *wikiwiki, Ben, Jen and more to come.
I think this should all get less, pithy, and more sincere as the blogging goes. In all honesty, I think more people should write more often, including myself. I like writing because unlike conversation, the other person isn't simply scheming (perhaps this is too harsh a word) as to when to jump in and turn the conversation back onto themselves. Because in conversation, we are, unavoidably, always thinking of what to say next, how to respond in the moment. But, when you read, your mind goes to rest and you take in much more than you would in a face-to-face conversation. At least, thats how I am with reading. And, just like with making anything, there's definitely a shiny little part of me that is like "hey look, I MAAADE something". And it may not be something of any particularly high literary quality or outstanding comedic wit, but its something semi-permanent and structurally independent none-the-less.
Clearing concerning my syntax, grammar and all forms of punctuation: I over use prepositional phrases and quotation marks and have terrible spelling. I know this. But it probably won't change. And I use the word "particularly" all the time.
I think in future posts I will give myself a more defined subject matter. Next blog, or chapter as I'd like to think of it, will explain the title Blue Velvet.
Hint: It has to do with White 1988 Lincoln Towncars.
I think the key to blogging is not to re-read over what you have written or you'll never have the courage to publicly post anything. Yep, no more re-reading.
Tricky things, blogs. Attempting to be funny, without being too cheeky, obnoxious or continually self deprecating. Sincere, but in all honesty your publishing your thoughts on a "google" blog so just how open and tech savvy can you really pretend to be? I think this must happen a lot in a blog too, making fun of your own self in attempts to rationalize your own blog endeavor efforts.
I think the real issue at heart is, that when you choose to create a blog, you tacitly imply that people would actually want to read what you write. Well, not even imply really, but more directly, you actually believe people will find what you have to say interesting, funny or thought provoking. And that's a scary thing to appear to think, and deep down sorta maybe think too, I think.
Clearing Number 2: I spent 17 minutes attempting to come up with a catchy name for the thing, follwed by another 13 minutes to come up with a "url" name and finally another 31 minutes playing with the page settings and colors and fonts. In all honesty, my initial enthusiasm has declined, but in the spirit of the hour I decided I must at least post something.
Clearing about the term "clearing": I work at lululemon. We use a lot of uplifting, goal orienting, self opening jargon, like "clearing".
Blogs in and of themselves are like clearings, really. It just means spitting out the things that are floating about your mind that are keeping you from being present.
I should take a moment to interject here that aside from me working for a company that promotes "self development", my mother also teaches at the College of Metaphysics. So, if by chance you plan to be a regular follower of this blog, just prepare yourself. This is the third time while writing that I have paused and thought of a few sentences to write in my head (the most recent being, "even eckhart tolle couldn't submerse himself in this metaphysical of an environment). I then decided this wasn't a very funny or particularly profound statement and so I chose not to include it. I then wondered if I could write about wondering whether to write something. And then I wrote it so, so much for just wondering.
I wonder if people will find little free flowing tangents like the one above intriguing or annoying.
Perhaps, I shall just write all of my "wondering" comments in italics.
Yes. Italics most certainly suits the wondering. This is getting to be a bit strange and perhaps too free form.
Anyway, I've also decided to catalogue code names (well some of them aren't so encrypted) of some of the characters in my life.
- Character One: Planet Holly, also referred to lovingly as Diva (she's abroad right now, but is going to be absolutely ecstatic that she is considered "Character One" and I did so because she is the only person I know who would be genuinely pleased with this blog ranking)
- Character Two: Ms. Diamond, after all she is the inspiration of this whole enterprise.
- Character Three: Mr. Swarrick, he knows who he is.
- Character Four: Sherah, my mother.
- Character Five: Fluster Bunny, kudos to whoever guesses who this is. I should also look up where "kudos" comes from. No earthly clue. Probably latin or something. I'll wikipedia soon and report back.
- Character 6: *wikiwiki, this isn't a character, but given the discussion around Character 5, I will simply use this phrase when I think something relatively unknown, but commonly used needs some clarification via wikipedia. For instance, one wonders what comes up when one wikipedias (in the verb sense), the phrase "wikipedia" (*wikiwiki)
- Character 7: Ben, the guy who introduced me to my Australian ex-boyfriend. Ben would always say "wiki-wiki" when watching a Cricket game so naturally he came to mind. Ben also used to shout, "I'M NOT MUMBLING" in a very articulated manner at me and my other American friends who could never fully understand any Australian when they were speaking in full go.
- Character 8: Jen, she is that person at work that you ALWAYS manage to do something stupid in front of. ALWAYS. Like screw up the cash register. Like look for pant hangers in every possible cabinet, except the cabinet they are locked away in. Like leave your car door wide open in the parking lot the entire time you are in a boxing class. Things like that.
- Character 9: to be continued...
RECAP on characters thus far:
Planet Holly, Ms. Diamond, Mr. Swarrick, Sherah, Fluster Bunny, *wikiwiki, Ben, Jen and more to come.
I think this should all get less, pithy, and more sincere as the blogging goes. In all honesty, I think more people should write more often, including myself. I like writing because unlike conversation, the other person isn't simply scheming (perhaps this is too harsh a word) as to when to jump in and turn the conversation back onto themselves. Because in conversation, we are, unavoidably, always thinking of what to say next, how to respond in the moment. But, when you read, your mind goes to rest and you take in much more than you would in a face-to-face conversation. At least, thats how I am with reading. And, just like with making anything, there's definitely a shiny little part of me that is like "hey look, I MAAADE something". And it may not be something of any particularly high literary quality or outstanding comedic wit, but its something semi-permanent and structurally independent none-the-less.
Clearing concerning my syntax, grammar and all forms of punctuation: I over use prepositional phrases and quotation marks and have terrible spelling. I know this. But it probably won't change. And I use the word "particularly" all the time.
I think in future posts I will give myself a more defined subject matter. Next blog, or chapter as I'd like to think of it, will explain the title Blue Velvet.
Hint: It has to do with White 1988 Lincoln Towncars.
I think the key to blogging is not to re-read over what you have written or you'll never have the courage to publicly post anything. Yep, no more re-reading.
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